


My Life Has Been Such a Whirlwind Since I Saw You

by BentWingedSnitch



Series: What Started Out As Friendship [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 01x05, Eventual Smut, M/M, Miscommunication, Requited Unrequited Love, a whole lotta build up, angst because I can, these boys are idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22539010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BentWingedSnitch/pseuds/BentWingedSnitch
Summary: The Witcher he had jacked off once (and received the best head in his life from), refused to kill the monster that almost killed him, because of the witch that the Witcher just fucked. That might actually make an even better ballad, now that he thinks of it.Sequel to I Can't Fight This Feeling Any Longer
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: What Started Out As Friendship [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621738
Comments: 119
Kudos: 1129
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development, Just.... So cute..., The Witcher





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty, now here is some semi-angsty follow-up that absolutely no one asked for! I quite literally started writing a fic, it was gonna be short, and then it started to become a monster. I just couldn't handle leaving everything so nice and tidy, so I had to explore all of the aftermath of Geralt and Jaskier hooking up and wanted to keep it in a semi-canonical frame, so voila! Once again, I hope nobody's too OOC, this, like my previous, is un-beta'd so if there are any glaring errors please let me know!  
> Also, just a thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments on my last fic, it really made me so happy, I really cannot even express how much!  
> Anywho, for those who are still reading this, I've bored you long enough, please enjoy!

It had never happened again after that first time, and Jaskier was fine with that. Completely fine.

After the betrothal that turned into a bloodbath, then a rather lovely ceremony, Geralt took off, probably reeling with the fact that he was now responsible for a child of all things. Jaskier on the other hand went back to his life before. Not at all caring that Geralt had abandoned him at a party full of people who wanted to roast his cock over an open flame. 

After getting atop a table and announcing to the masses that he was in fact a eunuch and no, he couldn’t have been the one seen leaving any spouse’s bedchamber, and succumbing to utter humiliation in order to keep his most important asset from being chopped off, he left Cintra. 

Jaskier went back on the road, he sung, he performed, he had a fair amount of sex. Actually no, that would be putting it mildly, he had a crazy amount of wild tantric sex with his mass of suddenly adoring fans. And it was fantastic. It really was. Especially since he really wasn’t a eunuch (a rumor that had spread unnervingly quickly). Though he occasionally thought about the thrill of that one time with Geralt, Jaskier was content with his life of never going to bed alone. Sure, in the morning he would wake up to empty sheets, but that was just how it worked, and he can’t remember ever experiencing anything different.

He was at the height of his fame, and it was simply amazing. He could walk into some backwater tavern and strum the opening notes of “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher” and have a crowd of complete strangers singing along. They may have been strangers, but for that night they would love him.

He would strum his tune and look into the crowd for a face. He didn’t even really know whose face he was looking for, but he always found one that was good enough for a night. 

But then they saw each other again, him and Geralt. Geralt was hunting for a djinn and going insane with lack of sleep and also being a bit of a prick about Jaskier’s talents, and Jaskier had just had his heart broken by the Countess de Stael so he had been very raw at the time.

Next thing he knows the djinn is out, he’s choking, some elf then says he’s dying, he’s waking up to a very sexy and completely mad witch putting some paint or something on her naked body, and it all ends with Geralt running headfirst into a collapsing building.

Jaskier may get paid in the stories that fuel his songs, but sometimes it really doesn’t feel like enough.

When he sees Geralt fucking that witch though, or more accurately, when Chireadan and him see Geralt fucking that witch (because for some reason the elf is there too), he doesn’t know how he’s going to write about the feeling that settles in his gut. At first, he’s relieved, fucking hell is he relieved, Geralt is alive and didn’t die for some insane witch, but he doesn’t understand the cramp in his stomach. Or he does, but he is very reluctant to name it.

And now he’s stuck sitting next to some strange elf who is waxing on about Yennefer’s beauty and power, and Jaskier actually feels the urge to hurt him, which is more than a little shocking because Jaskier can count the number of physical altercations that he has initiated on one hand, and he cannot remember any of those going in his favor.

So instead he just stares at the dirt in front of him, thankful to no longer be vomiting blood, and waits. When Geralt finally emerges, sans witch, Jaskier feels a bit lighter. 

He follows the Witcher back to where they left Roach, and surprisingly Geralt even lets him hop up on the horse behind him. He has just enough time to grip vaguely to Geralt’s waist before Roach picks up speed, and Geralt is taking them as far away from the site as he can.

They stay silent for quite some time, Geralt is brooding no doubt, and Jaskier is just thankful that they don’t have to talk about what just happened. Geralt didn’t see Jaskier in the window, he doesn’t know Jaskier is fully aware of what happened in that crumbling building, and they can both pretend nothing’s changed.

But apparently Jaskier is a glutton for punishment because suddenly he’s uttering the words, “How was it?” like a complete idiot.

He had hoped Roach’s galloping might have been enough to drown out the question, but then he feels a slight yet distinct stiffening in the Witcher, and not the fun kind.

“How was what?” Geralt responds, his voice laced with an indifference that Jaskier has heard often enough to know is affected. The trees dance past them and Roach noticeably reduces her speed, if Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d think the horse was listening.

A part of him wants to press on, ask about how it felt for Geralt to be with Yennefer, whether he got more pleasure from his time with the witch than his time with Jaskier, but the more sensible and sane part, knows he may be unable to stomach the answer. What right does he really have to ask regardless? They hadn’t seen one another in ages, and he certainly hasn’t been celibate in that time, so why should he expect it from Geralt?

Forcing a bit of false cheer, Jaskier clarifies, “How was fighting the djinn?” He even puts on a smile Geralt can’t even see but just might be able to hear in his voice, “Any gruesome details to share with your resident lyricist?”

A few moments pass before Geralt finally grunts out, “It was fine.”

“Wow,” Jaskier fake yawns loudly for effect, “very descriptive,” he hopes his feigned sarcasm is coming through but it’s hard to tell without seeing Geralt’s little frown of annoyance. “What’d it look like?”

“A shadow.”

That does perk Jaskier up a bit, “Ooh, interesting. And how did you kill it?” An epic ballad already coming together in his head, “Any chance by crossbow, or a long bow, or something with a nice ‘o’ sound at the end?”

Geralt pauses again before answering, and Jaskier really can’t understand how a man that supposedly has no emotions manages to be so consistently and broodingly, dramatic, “I didn’t.”

Jaskier tries not to sound too disappointed, “Ah, so just the usual wack or two with the mighty sword was it?”

“No,” Geralt grumbles, “I didn’t kill it.”

While Jaskier knew it wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary for Geralt to spare a creature, that usually only happened if said creature is peaceful or endangered. Jaskier splutters, “May I ask why you didn’t kill the monster that tried to skip rope with my vocal cords?”

Geralt sighs, “It was trapped, what would you have done?”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier gapes at the Witcher’s back, “I certainly wouldn’t have taken my pent-up aggression out on a harmless bard!”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Geralt tells him, and Jaskier can feel a hot flush rising in his cheeks. 

“I have every right to be dramatic!” He can practically feel Geralt rolling his eyes, “it was because of her wasn’t it.”

Roach jolts as she hops over a branch and Jaskier scrabbles for purchase on Geralt’s armor. Geralt doesn’t say a word.

“Yes fine. Don’t answer,” Jaskier mutters, hoping not too much of his indignation is lost in his desperate cling to the older man’s waist. 

The Witcher he had jacked off once (and received the best head in his life from), refused to kill the monster that almost killed him, because of the witch that the Witcher just fucked. That might actually make an even better ballad, now that he thinks of it.


	2. Chapter 2

When Geralt finally speaks again they are in the process of making camp.

“I wouldn’t lie there,” is all he says, and glaring at Geralt, Jaskier plops down exactly where he was told not to, crossing his legs for good measure. Geralt just shrugs and digs around in one of his satchels until he finds a handful of oats for Roach.

Jaskier’s stomach voices its own hunger, but he really doesn’t want to request being fed with the horse. Geralt strokes her neck and Roach seems to meet Jaskier’s eye directly as she munches from the Witcher’s hand, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a horse look so smug. Must he constantly be scorned by women today?

“Don’t do that,” Geralt sighs, not even looking away from the horse, but obviously sensing Jaskier’s glare, “she could kill you almost as easily as I could.”

Jaskier scoffs though he honestly doesn’t doubt it. But he is feeling irrationally petty, so instead of agreeing, he replies, “What’re you going on about now? Roach? Or are you waxing on about that damned witch again?” 

In all their travels, Jaskier has never heard Geralt wax on about anyone, but he cannot resist the flailing and somewhat weak jab. He expects the question to be enough though, make the Witcher once again lapse into an hours long brooding silence, just the thought of a small victory has his chest puffing up a bit.

But then Geralt replies, which seems to surprise them both, “she’s called Yennefer.”

Jaskier’s eyes fall to the ground in front of him, they should work on building a fire soon. “So, we’re on a first name basis now, are we?”

Geralt doesn't reply, too busy feigning attention to his horse, but by some grace of the Gods, that is exactly what seems to compel Jaskier.

He doesn’t know what makes him say it, whether it’s the sudden urge to be brave or to be stupid, but before he can stop himself, he’s looking up and blurting out the words: “I saw you.”

The silence that follows is almost painful. A part of him wants to cover his eyes and not have to look at Geralt’s reaction, but instead, with a surprising amount of resolve, he steels himself. Geralt doesn’t meet his gaze, but the Witcher does stop tending to his mare for the moment, and Roach noses at his hand petulantly in response. Jaskier knows he should probably give Geralt time to say something, but his nerves are getting the better of him and he just can’t stand the silence any longer (even if it’s only lasted a total of two minutes).

“It’s not like I meant to look or anything,” Jaskier explains desperately, “I was mainly concerned for your safety, but then Chireadan and I, he was there as well, saw you and the witch- you and Yennefer, and you both were… you know,” he makes a vague gesture with his hands, and he is just so glad that Geralt is still not looking at him and didn’t see what his hands had just vividly reenacted. 

“Hmm,” is the only response given to Jaskier’s babbling, and the bard looks to the sky for some type of guidance.

He suddenly feels a fiery sensation biting at his skin, at first, he thinks it’s some divine or magical intervention, coming to relieve Jaskier from this tense situation he’s put himself in, but then Jaskier realizes that it hurts quite a bit. Nope. Not just a bit. It hurts a lot.

“Fuck!” Jaskier screeches as he jumps to his feet, only to see his legs covered with tiny black insects each with their own set of barely perceptible pincers. He scrabbles to remove the vermin from his expensive trousers, covering his hands with the ends of his sleeves, he wipes frantically at his legs, reluctant to let his hands touch the wriggling pests.

He dances out of his previous spot, hopping from foot to foot as he swipes at each leg only to fall on his arse a few feet from where he began. 

They are still on him, and now they are angry, biting more frequently, and Jaskier can only yell out “Fuck off!” before he is ripping off his own trousers in some insane sense of self-preservation. He throws them as far as he possibly can, which admittedly isn’t very far, and they fall right back where he had just been, on top of a small hole from which more bugs continue to pour. 

“Who could have foreseen that,” Geralt says plainly, Jaskier looks up to the Witcher to see the man addressing his horse, who seems to be pleased to have regained her owner’s attention. 

“Thank you so much for the warning Geralt,” Jaskier snarks, as he tentatively sits on the ground, lifting a leg in the air to examine the quickly forming welts, “Wherever would I be without a strong Witcher around to protect me.”

“I said not to lie there,” Geralt responds, now directly addressing him. The Witcher’s eyebrows raise at Jaskier’s incredibly humiliating position, as well as his pitiable state. Jaskier lowers his leg. 

“Oh yes of course, how could I have not interpreted that to mean ‘Jaskier, you are about to sit on a giant hole filled with vicious little vermin’!” He replies testily, readjusting his smallclothes to retain whatever dignity he could possibly have left

Geralt doesn’t even acknowledge his response, he just gives Jaskier the barest of glances before traipsing off into the woods. Jaskier looks to Roach who is staring back at him almost accusatorially, her food source having left her.

“Guess it’s just you and me then,” Jaskier sighs and Roach pointedly looks away.


	3. Chapter 3

_The White Wolf swung his mighty sword,  
Yet the djinn showed no dismay,  
But once the final wish was uttered,  
The granter fluttered away._

_It appeared as a shadow,  
The absence of all good and true,  
Though three wishes it did bestow,  
None did it see through._

Jaskier strums the final note, holding it a bit longer than necessary just to test the strength of his healed vocal cords. The words were incredibly rusty, and he had yet to work in the whole him almost dying bit, but it was a solid start.

“That’s not what happened,” a rumble announces, and Jaskier startles violently as Geralt emerges from the woods, a large pile of sticks in arms and a dead doe slung around his shoulders. 

“Where the fuck have you been?!” Jaskier demands, jumping to his feet, lute in hand, and immediately regretting the decision as he realizes he is still without trousers. He covers himself with his instrument, trying to make the movement seem as casual as possible.

Geralt dumps the pile of sticks unceremoniously in the middle of their camp, and shrugs the deer from his shoulders, “picking daisies.”

Jaskier’s heckles rise instantly, “I did that once! Years ago!”

Geralt smirks as he squats down, seemingly proud of what Jaskier believes to be the only joke he’s ever told in his long life. The Witcher arranges the sticks in order to provide a stable enough environment to get a fire going. 

Jaskier, once again remembering the state of his bare and steadily swelling legs, decides to sit back down on the grass, setting his lute safely to the side, “What’d you mean anyway?” 

“The wishes,” Geralt tells him, not beating around the bush, eyes remaining on his work in front of him, “The djinn granted them.”

“Umm, no,” Jaskier’s brow scrunches, “I have no recollection of Countess de Stael riding in begging me to take her back. And believe me, she would’ve arrived by now, that woman has the ferocity and the stamina of an untamed minx.”

Geralt looks at him, his face blank save for the slight downturn of his lips, “They weren’t your wishes Jaskier.”

Jaskier scoffs, “Then why, might I ask, did the djinn try to rob me of my greatest instrument?”

Geralt shifts, his face still a mask, but Jaskier has known the man long enough to sense when the Witcher is feeling something akin to guilt, “It was trying to silence you, in a more permanent manner than was necessary but…” He trails off and the pieces click together.

Jaskier stares at Geralt dumbfoundedly, “You wished for peace, and so the thing tried to kill me.”

Geralt’s gaze falls back to the sticks in his hands, not even having the nerve to look Jaskier in the eye, “Yes.” 

“I see,” Jaskier replies, more to himself than to Geralt, his face oddly hot. “So not only did you not kill the djinn to avenge my potential corpse, but you also were the one that set it on me in the first place?” 

Jaskier is amazed that he has managed to keep his voice level, best not to let on how ready he is to throw his lute at the Witcher’s head. Though of course he would never do that, his lute is far too precious. 

Geralt makes an affirming noise in the form of a grunt.

Okay, maybe he can spare his lute.

Gods, isn’t this just the shit icing on the shit cake. Jaskier absentmindedly itches his legs, relishing in the burn of his nails on the raised skin. The second Jaskier was fine and healed, from the Witcher’s own doing no less, all worry for the bard must’ve vanished from the Geralt’s mind. Oh yes, of course, no time for friends when there is a gorgeous sorceress about.

Geralt still is looking into the fire, having managed to start it moments ago. “Stop scratching,” he orders, and Jaskier’s stomach flips a bit at the severity of his tone. He looks down to his legs and red streaks of irritated skin mark where his nails have dug, but he doesn’t feel much like taking orders from the Witcher at the moment so he continues on scratching, enjoying the temporary release from the bothersome bites. 

“When did you find out? That you had the wishes, I mean,” Jaskier can’t help but ask, needing to know how to gauge his anger.

“Not until they threw me in that cell,” Geralt tells him, “And I wished a man’s skull to pop like a boil.”

He shudders at the imagery, “you’re truly wasted as a Witcher Geralt, with such beautiful words you’d have made the grandest of bards.”

Geralt grunts and Jaskier rolls his eyes, fighting a fond smile at his gruff and brutish friend. He considers how much easier it is, just to choose not to be angry at the other man. Besides, can he really fault Geralt for a mistake he was unaware of? The answer is yes, because Jaskier almost died, but he has decided to be magnanimous and so on, so for all intents and purposes Jaskier is pretending the answer is no. They fall silent, only the creaking of the trees and unnerving sounds of the forest to keep them company.

Jaskier, with an angled scratch of his nail, accidentally opens up one of the welts on his legs. A wave of panic overcomes him when the pungent smell of death reaches his nostrils. He hastily inspects the open wound on his leg. That’s when he hears the distinct sound of a knife digging between skin and muscle. Geralt has begun to prepare the deer. He chances a quick glance to confirm, and hastily decides that’d be in his best interest not to the watch the process.

The fact that Geralt has yet to bring up their earlier conversation unnerves him slightly. But then again, when has talking things out have ever really been Geralt’s style? The Witcher has two settings, brooding mystery and terrifying bane of all monster kind. Jaskier luxuriates in those moments when he gets to interact with the in between.

Not that Jaskier actually wants to talk about it, mind. But getting some idea of just what exactly Geralt has to say about his confession, even if it was more of a ramble than a confession, is almost compelling him to ask. He won’t though, not when they can just pretend it never happened even having acknowledged that it did.

He can feel a presence looming over him and glancing up he finds Geralt looking down at him, a cooked piece of venison in hand like some sort of offering. Jaskier takes the piece of what he thinks once was a leg and meets Geralt’s cat-like eyes. There’s an unspoken apology in there somewhere, Jaskier is sure of it, he is just having trouble finding it in the Witcher’s glance. But then again, Geralt’s actions are often more telling than his words, or his gorgeous brooding face. 

Jaskier holds Geralt’s gaze as he bites into the meat, a bit of juice gathering in the corner of his lips. He sees Geralt’s eyes drop minutely to his mouth before the Witcher is walking back over to Roach. Well at least he hasn’t completely lost his touch.

Geralt digs through one of the saddlebags before seeming to find what he was looking for, and to Jaskier’s surprise, the Witcher comes back over and sits down next to him. He doesn’t sit as casually as Jaskier does of course (cross-legged with his smallclothes barely protecting his modesty), but on his shins as if he’ll need to get up at a moment’s notice. 

Finishing the piece of venison in his hands, Jaskier licks the juice from his thumb. How long has it been since he bathed exactly? Almost dying does make a man a bit sweaty. With that thought he promptly takes his tongue away from his hand and decides to keep it that way until they happen by a stream or, by some miracle, an inn.

He turns to Geralt to find the man already looking at him, his brow furrowed. He looks down to see a small vile in the Witcher’s hand, “What’s that then?”

Geralt studies him for a moment and his brow suddenly smooths out, his lips quirking a bit at the corner and Jaskier’s stomach twists. He hates how even the barest hint of pleasantry on Geralt’s face makes him want to pounce on the much larger and vaguely threatening man. Geralt hands him the vile and Jaskier receives it as if it were a gift, still not knowing what the fuck it's even supposed to be.

“For the bites,” Geralt says plainly, as if he were remarking on Jaskier’s new tunic (which he has not), and not offering up an oddly kind gesture. 

“Ah,” Jaskier studiously replies, holding the vile up to the firelight. Feeling a bit mischievous, Jaskier asks, “Does it go on me or in me?”

Geralt coughs, “On. It’s a salve,” his voice sounds a bit rougher than usual, and Jaskier has to suppress a smirk. The bard knows an olive branch when he sees one though, so he decides to take what he can get. Jaskier pops the cork out of the vile, but Geralt catches his wrist. “It’s potent, just a small amount.”

Jaskier nods, Geralt’s callused hand drags itself from his wrist, the rough skin raising gooseflesh in its wake. Jaskier dabs a small amount of the salve onto his fingertip, it looks and smells like literal dogshit, and his nose scrunches up a bit when a particularly strong whiff hits his nostrils. Geralt of course, does not react, but his eyes study Jaskier’s reaction with intense focus, as if he is worried something could go horribly wrong, which certainly does not help Jaskier’s nerves.

The bard cradles one of his legs before dabbing a bit of the salve on his shin, covering a wide area in brownish dots, before smoothing a hand over the skin. The welts on his shin begin to seal and shrink until they are nothing more than a rosy dusting, as if his legs were victim only to a weak sunburn rather than the pincers of merciless little insects. 

“Well fuck me,” Jaskier grins before hastily dabbing a bit more on his finger and applying it to his other shin, massaging it into the wounded skin. As that heals, he applies a few dabs to his outer thighs, his wispy leg hair smoothing down a bit from the viscous ointment. He spreads it to his inner thighs, and pushes against the muscle, rubbing in the salve deep and thorough. His cock jumps a tad from the proximity, but thankfully, other than that it remains uninterested.

He continues to massage the salve into his legs, enjoying the instant relief from the irritation and pain, even groaning a bit as a particularly nasty bite heals over. 

The sudden shifting from beside him reminds him of Geralt’s presence and a flush rises in Jaskier’s cheeks. The bard looks over to the Witcher, who is determinedly not looking at him, but instead is staring into the fire, jaw clenched to the point of looking almost painful.

“Geralt?” Jaskier finds himself asking more than saying, wanting to request the other man’s attention rather than demand it, because it feels like the thing to do for some reason.

The Witcher continues to look into the flames, just above the cracking of the burning wood, Jaskier hears him growl, “What is it that you want from me Jaskier?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so happy people seem to be enjoying this so far! And I'm so happy with the response! I've got to be honest, your guys' comments are really giving me life right now so thank you! And the KUDOS! Thank you to everyone reading this story, I really appreciate all of the support! Well, here goes the next bit, enjoy! <3

“What is it that you want from me Jaskier?”

Jaskier pouts a bit in confusion, “Ah, I’m not quite sure I know what you’re getting at.”

“Why continue to seek my company?” Geralt’s voice still a low grumble, but Jaskier thinks there’s a bit of weariness in there as well, one not gained from lack of sleep. “Is it still for your songs? For your fame.”

Jaskier isn’t hurt by the words, after all, that is exactly the reason why he started to follow Geralt in the first place. But he’s achieved a good amount of recognition, and he could be out there performing in the highest of courts, so why is he choosing to follow Geralt, yet again? He knows the obvious answer, Geralt is gorgeous and his life is full of excitement, and Jaskier just wants to be near him, fuck knows why. Geralt is shit to him half the time (though he can be shit right back), and his life is shit food and shit sleeping arrangements. Jaskier knows though, in the times he’s traveled with Geralt he’s never been bored, and he’s never felt alone. 

He can’t really articulate all of this to Geralt, not unless he wants a ‘hmm’ or a furrowed brow in response, which he does not. So Jaskier answers the easiest way he can think to: “I don’t know.” And he waits to see if that is enough for the Witcher to keep him, to allow him to travel at his side.

Geralt’s only response is to “hmm” at him, and Jaskier is thankful he didn’t have the nerve to say anything more meaningful. Imagine confessing your feelings for someone only to be ‘hmm’d’ at in response? Not that he has feelings for Geralt. He definitely has feelings _about _Geralt, lust and annoyance to name a few. But he cannot imagine conveying either of those- well, he could convey his annoyance quite easily, but confessing to his lust, that might just be humiliating. Yes, Geralt did suck him off that one (amazing) time, but he also knows that repeating the experience is probably the furthest thing from the Witcher’s mind.__

__That day in Cintra Jaskier approached the idea with such confidence. Geralt was naked in a tub and Jaskier had already gotten to touch him under the guise of that chamomile, it was craving in those moments, and he had known just what he had to do to feed it. He gambled his friendship with Geralt in desperation and it paid off splendidly._ _

__He studies Geralt’s profile, lit up by the firelight, taking in the strength of his jaw and the outline of his mouth. The bard’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips, remembering the filthy kisses stolen in that tub, the throb of Geralt’s- he cuts that thought off as quick as it starts, caging his tongue in his mouth with his own teeth. Too much time has passed, they have both changed, and Jaskier knows that he can’t risk what they have now, though it may not be ideal, he knows he can learn to be content._ _

__The flickering flame makes Geralt’s eyes shine in the darkness, but Jaskier takes not of something else. Not only can Jaskier detect Geralt’s weariness, but if Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d think the Witcher looks a bit put out as well._ _

__“What, pray tell, was the answer you were looking for?” Jaskier asks, because he genuinely wants to know what made the Witcher’s eyes look like that, “Do you want it to be only for my songs? That I follow you only for the fame and the coin?”_ _

__Geralt doesn’t answer right away, but then he frowns and looks to Jaskier, “I’m not quite sure.”_ _

__Jaskier scoffs, “Right well, usually when I ask a question, I have an answer in mind, especially if there’s going to be a wrong one.”_ _

__Geralt’s eyes narrow, “And when answering a question, I usually tell the truth.”_ _

__Ah. Awkward. Jaskier shifts his position a bit, Geralt’s awareness of his fib making him all too aware of his physical exposure. “Yes, well…” Jaskier trails off, biting the inside of his cheek. “I wasn’t expecting to be forced into some kind of heart to heart.”_ _

__Geralt’s glare softens, not by much, but he no longer looks as if he is planning Jaskier’s immediate demise. “I just want to know your reasoning.”_ _

__“Why does it matter why I choose to follow you? Obviously, I’m content with my lot, your content with yours, let’s just leave it at that, shall we?” Jaskier looks away from the Witcher, no longer wishing to meet his amber glare. Naturally, Geralt can sense just enough to want to pry into the topic, but not enough to know it’s one that should be left alone._ _

__“It matters to me,” Geralt grumbles, and Jaskier fights the desire to look back at him, opting instead to look into the fire, more specifically the charring of a rather oddly shaped twig. “What are you getting out of all of this? Because I know for certain you are far more at home singing for lords and ladies than sleeping trouser-less in the middle of the woods.”_ _

__Jaskier feigns surprise, “Well look at you! Very intuitive all a sudden! If I didn’t know better, I’d start to think you might care about me.”_ _

__With a glance, Jaskier can see Geralt is displeased with his words, but Jaskier doesn’t have time to pick that whole mess apart. Geralt is silent for a long time, not exactly a new occurrence, though he does seem to lean a bit closer to Jaskier in his brooding._ _

__When the Witcher does speak, it’s as if the words are fighting to escape his lips, “I just…” Geralt grits out, once again falling silent as if arranging his thoughts, Jaskier looks at him just in time for Geralt to meet his eyes, “Just tell me that this doesn’t have to do with Cintra.”_ _

__Jaskier swallows roughly, trapped under the Witcher’s gaze he flounders, “What about Cintra? The bloodshed, the ceremony, your child surprise… A lot happened Geralt, I’m not quite sure I know which part your talking about.”_ _

__“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Geralt growls at him, being far more upfront than Jaskier would expect, especially since he thought that Geralt had merely chosen to forget that any of it had happened, “I just want to make sure that you weren’t still hoping-”_ _

__“What?” Jaskier stares at the man next to him in disbelief, “Hoping that if I tag along long enough you might suck my cock again?” Jaskier’s stomach is churning to the point that he half expects to start vomiting._ _

__Geralt sighs closing his eyes briefly, “That’s not what I was going to say.”_ _

__“It’s what you think though isn’t it?” Jaskier snaps at him, “That I’m following you around like a dog begging for scraps.” Jaskier may have had a vague hope that they might fall into bed again, and a few more times after that. But to act as if that were the only reason he would wish to follow the Witcher, that he is so desperate for cock that he would intentionally put himself in harm’s way…_ _

__“Jaskier, we can’t-” Geralt cuts himself off, but he does meet Jaskier’s eyes, the Witcher actually looks a bit guilty, “My life is not a grand one.”_ _

__“Yes, the almost dying bit was very misleading,” Jaskier snarks, “For a second I thought I’d accidentally walked into a queen’s court because I don’t usually get the pleasure of spitting up blood on one of my nicer shirts.”_ _

__Geralt looks almost pleading, as if he just wants Jaskier to understand why he should walk away, but really it just stokes Jaskier’s annoyance._ _

__“I know what your life entails Geralt, and I may not be in it just for the songs, but don’t for one bloody minute assume that I am naïve enough not to understand my own choices,” Jaskier tells him, vindictively enjoying the bit of emotion that crosses the Witcher’s stoic face. “I was jealous of the witch; I will admit to that. And I still think about the feeling of your mouth on me and the feeling of your cock in my hand. But none of those are enough for me to risk my life traveling with you.”_ _

__Geralt stares at him, brow furrowed in thought, “So, are you staying or are you going?”_ _

__Jaskier stares back, how is it that Witchers are supposed to have superior intelligence, and yet the only one the bard knows can be the thickest being in the whole of the Continent. “Staying.”_ _

__Geralt nods once, giving up on all further questioning. He reaches out and tears a piece of venison off the handcrafted spit over the fire. He chews it, looking back into the flame._ _

__Jaskier lays down on his bedroll and turns on his side away from Geralt, deciding to let this day end as soon as possible. His legs are a bit chilly, but the fire provides enough warmth to lull him into sleep, just as he’s about to drift off however he hears a distinct rumble of “’Night Jaskier.”_ _


	5. Chapter 5

Jaskier wakes to a chattering sound, only to realize it’s his own teeth. A shiver wracks his body and he turns over on his bedroll only to see that the fire has gone out. Geralt’s on the other side of the charred logs, the Witcher’s eyes are closed. Just for a moment, Jaskier allows himself to watch Geralt’s strong shoulders and broad chest move almost imperceptibly with his subtle breathing. Jaskier flops back down on his bedroll, looking up at the sky the stars blink down on him mockingly.

His eyes begin to droop, and his mind is just about to breach the blissful land of unconsciousness when another shudder seizes him, his chest squeezing tight. Jaskier sits up with a rather loud sigh and attempts to massage some warmth back into his legs, the temperature having had dropped incredibly low as the night wore on. He looks longingly over to his discarded pants, but the idea of shaking out all those bugs, or potentially ending up with more bites, makes him opt for the cold. Rubbing his legs, he hopes that the sunrise isn’t too far off.

“Just put the damn pants on,” Geralt grumbles, his eyes not even bothering to open.

Jaskier grimaces but doesn’t reply, instead he just continues rubbing his legs, the moonlight reflecting off the pale skin, Gods he needs a tan. Just a nice trip up the coast, soak up some sun and have some real time to compose some new ballads. Though it would be a bit tricky without his muse present, especially since he doubts that Geralt would choose to follow him anywhere, not after all that has happened. Just the thought brings back his earlier annoyance and he huffs out an irritated breath. Chewing his lip, he begins to think on all the other scathing things he could have said to the Witcher.

He is interrupted however, but yet another onset of chills, which causes him to break right through the skin of his lip. Jaskier lets out a hiss as he raises his fingers to his mouth, only for them to come away with a bit of blood at the tips. What a perfect end to a perfect day.

Looking towards the source of his bitterness, he startles when he finds a pair of cat-like eyes already watching him.

“Fucking Gods, must you stare like that?” Jaskier places a hand over his heart, “It’s fucking terrifying.”

Geralt doesn’t bother answering, “If you’re so cold, just put those foolish trousers back on.”

Jaskier’s eyes narrow, “So now you’ve problems with my clothes as well?”

“I’ve always had problems with your clothes,” Geralt says plainly, as if it were a perfectly polite thing to say to another person.

Jaskier guffaws indignantly, “I’m just going to ignore that,” glaring at the Witcher he continues, “And anyway, in case you have forgotten, they are covered in squirming little insects.”

Geralt lays back on his bedroll, but he doesn’t bother closing his eyes, “Just shake them off.”

“Yes, that’s all well and good for you to say, you aren’t the one who will forever bear the scars from their assault,” Jaskier says, looking down to his unmarked legs.

“Scars?” Geralt scoffs, “aren’t your legs healed by now?”

“Not all scars are physical Geralt,” Jaskier sighs dramatically, rubbing his legs with a renewed vigor.

“So, you plan to do that all night?”

“Just until I start to feel my toes again.”

Geralt looks at him again, his mouth pressed firmly. Suddenly he’s pushing himself to his feet and picking up his bedroll and his sheathed sword. Jaskier watches in wonder as Geralt approaches him, the Witcher throws his bedroll down beside Jaskier, and sits himself down without a word.

“Um… What’re you doing?” 

Geralt sets his sword on the ground beside him and makes a show of straightening out the bottom of his bedroll, “What does it look like?” Satisfied, Geralt extends his legs leisurely before lying back. 

“Alright, well, you certainly seem to be making yourself comfortable?” Jaskier’s eyes are wide as he watches Geralt clasp his hands over his chest.

“It's only getting colder,” Geralt tells him, “And since you insist on being stubborn…”

“Wow, Geralt of Rivia, calling someone stubborn,” Jaskier shakes his head in mock disbelief, “Do you by any chance have a mirror in one of your many satchels?”

Geralt ignores this, “I’m starting West at dawn, so if you plan on joining, I suggest getting some sleep.”

Jaskier resents the warm feeling in his chest, “What’s West?” He asks, awkwardly lying back on his own bedroll. He looks up at the stars to resist the urge of looking beside him.

He feels Geralt shrug beside him, their shoulders brushing, “Just a direction, had to pick one of them.”

“To be in the mind of a Witcher,” Jaskier sighs, but he knows his tone conveys more annoyance than amusement.

Geralt hums beside him. Jaskier gives into his desire and chances a glance to see Geralt’s eyes closed. His short white lashes sit atop his ridiculously gorgeous cheekbones. Jaskier allows his body to scoot just a little bit closer, Geralt’s heat too enticing to ignore. He is still incredibly pissed, and a part of him hopes the next monster they come across gives Geralt a swift kick in the groin, but for now it might be in his best interest if he just forgets the whole thing. He does however wonder how many times he’s going to have to forgive Geralt for not knowing how to talk to people. Especially friends. 

Jaskier closes his eyes and finally falls back to sleep.

⁙⁙⁙⁙

This time when Jaskier wakes up, the first thing he takes note of is the heat of the rising sun on his face. He opens his eyes to a squint, the sun just seems to have surpassed the horizon, the forest around them still dim but noticeably growing brighter. His body is sore and stiff from sleeping on the ground, bedroll or no. He stretches out his back, but instead of bringing him relief, it instead leads him to notice a second and then a third thing.

There is an arm slung over his waist and attached to it is a mouth breathing against his neck. Well, fuck.

He doesn’t know whether he should move and hope Geralt doesn’t wake up, or if he should pretend to be asleep so he can see how Geralt reacts without having to endure any awkward eye contact. But Geralt would know that he’s awake, won’t he? Don’t his Witcher-y senses detect that sort of thing? 

A part of Jaskier does bask a bit in the novelty of it, not having much experience waking up with men (they tend to be more of the get in and get out variety), and having the man, in this case, be Geralt, well that certainly doesn’t hurt. But the smarter part of Jaskier knows that, contrary to what the other part may feel, this has the potential to hurt quite a lot, especially since his stomach is already warming from just the feeling of being wrapped in Geralt’s incredibly strong arms. Gods, his life is fucked.

Geralt begins to shift, and, panicking, Jaskier hastily closes his eyes. He feels Geralt release a breath against his cheek, and Jaskier remembers to slow his own breathing. 

“Fuck,” he feels more than hears Geralt mumble against his neck, and Jaskier’s heart sinks a bit. Not that Geralt hadn’t made his feelings, or lack thereof, perfectly clear, but hearing Geralt’s rejection twice in just a handful of hours still stings. 

Jaskier is nursing his hurt, trying to remain as convincingly asleep as possible, when an incredibly interesting, and not at all weird thing happens.

Geralt presses his forehead against Jaskier’s cheek and breathes him in, slowly. His arm tightens across Jaskier’s waist, gently so as not to wake him from his “sleep”. Jaskier’s heart remains remarkably steady, as if it too knew what was on the line. Geralt leaves his forehead against Jaskier’s cheek for just a few more seconds before he removes his arm and rolls away. It’s only when Jaskier can hear the crunching of leaves beneath the Witcher’s boots that he knows it’s safe to breathe regularly again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone again for the Kudos and the comments! I was really unsure of posting this, but your guys' response is just making me so happy that I did! This one is a tad bit longer, but I hope you all enjoy! <3

Jaskier lies in silence for many moments before deciding to get up. He can hear Geralt feeding Roach and his neck tingles where it had once been wet from the Witcher’s breath.

He gives an overdramatic sigh, signifying that _this_ was the moment that he was waking up. Sitting up, he stretches his arms absurdly, earning him nothing more than a cursory glance from the Witcher.

“Get dressed,” is all Geralt says, and to Jaskier’s surprise, the other man walks over to his discarded trousers and shakes them out. Once satisfied, the Witcher throws the clean-ish trousers at Jaskier, who just barely manages to catch them.

His chest clenches at the unexpectedly kind gesture, “Thank you, Geralt,” Jaskier tells him, a surprising amount of feeling creeping into his voice.

Geralt only grunts in reply, but it doesn’t diminish the smile growing on Jaskier’s face. 

Next thing he knows it’s been two weeks. Two weeks of wondering how to bring up the events of that morning, or if he even should. What would he even say? _“Oh, hello Geralt, remember that morning that you felt the need to cuddle and smell my neck? Yes, well I was awake the entire time.”_

After Geralt had shaken the bugs out of Jaskier’s trousers it was like the whole affair with the djinn, with Yennefer, had never happened. The first town they had come across conveniently had a posting for the return of a farmer’s daughter in exchange for coin, and the rest is history. 

Geralt is at a corner table of the local inn talking to their contact and Jaskier watches the interaction from the bar. From the look on Geralt’s face, brow pinched and jaw tight, Jaskier theorizes that the old farmer is reluctant to part with his purse, despite his daughter being returned to him alive and well. 

Jaskier, on the other hand, is content to sip on his ale and watch the events from afar, knowing that Geralt is not leaving that table without at least enough coin to afford their room and the hot bath that Jaskier knows the Witcher is really looking forward to (though the man would never admit it). Geralt says something that turns the farmer quite pale and Jaskier smirks to himself.

“You’re with the Witcher, right?” A gravelly voice asks, drawing Jaskier’s attention to the man beside him. He’s moderately attractive, his face is a bit drawn, but his build is impressive, muscles in all the right places. The man’s dressed in peasant garbs, his clothing made from what looks like homespun wool and in a neutral brown color, which contrasts greatly with Jaskier’s new lavender doublet.

Jaskier gives him a winning smile, “Indeed I am, and who might you be?”

“The name’s Sὸlas,” the other man grins, “I work at the mill at the edge of the village, I just heard about the Wendigo taking Farmer Humes’ daughter,” Sὸlas grimaces, “That’s a nasty business you’re in.”

Jaskier chuckles, “Not me so much,” he gestures to the lute strapped to his back, “I just compose the epic ballads of our exploits.”

Sὸlas leans a little closer, “So you’re a bard then?” He signals for the barmaid to bring him another ale, not taking his eyes of Jaskier. “Are you plannin’ on singing any songs for us?”

He smirks, “Possibly, if inspiration strikes.” Jaskier looks around the inn, it's full of patrons who could be persuaded to part with their coin for a worthy performance. His eyes land on Geralt, still in the corner, the Farmer now reluctantly counting out some coin, but Geralt still looks unhappy.

Sὸlas hand moves just close enough that he can brush Jaskier’s knuckles with a solitary finger, “Could I be of any assistance?”

Jaskier’s hand tightens around his cup of ale, arousal tugging at his navel. He exhales heavily, “Oh, yes, I definitely think you could provide bountiful inspiration.” He takes a moment to examine Sὸlas’ dark lips, the way they stretch to reveal his white teeth, an easy smile. An expression he has never seen on Geralt’s face, Sὸlas has a face that is devoid of suffering, a smile as natural as blinking.

The miller moves in close, casual enough that any onlooker might just think they were discussing the harvest and not something that could get them both hung, especially in such a small and rustic village.

“There is a stable out back,” Sὸlas mutters, low enough that no other patrons would hear. The miller takes a long draw from his ale, “Hasn’t been used in months, been waiting for fairer weather to repair it, so…”

The other man is taking quite the risk in approaching him in this way, Jaskier is aware, and he can’t help but wonder what it is about him that makes him appear to be a safe bet. Then he remembers he’s wearing a lavender doublet in a sea of brown and grey (and the splash of black which is Geralt).

Jaskier smirks at the miller, “No interruptions.” The promise of a good fuck makes him bold enough to extend his own finger to brush over Sὸlas’. 

“Jaskier,” a familiar voice interrupts, and Jaskier suppresses the urge to roll his eyes.

Jaskier doesn’t remove his gaze from Sὸlas, “Geralt.” The Witcher’s large frame casting a heat on Jaskier’s side. 

“The farmer was reluctant to part with his coin,” Geralt tells him, his voice oddly tight, “but he was persuaded.”

He moves his eyes to Geralt, who is now pointedly looking at his company, “Yes, I’m sure your two big swords had nothing to do with the persuading.”

Sὸlas shifts awkwardly at his side, his hand sliding away from Jaskier’s. 

“Who’s your friend?” Geralt asks, following the movement of Sὸlas’ hand with his gaze.

“Ah yes, Sὸlas, meet Geralt,” Jaskier gestures with his hand, Sὸlas gives a grimace of a smile, “Geralt, this young man is Sὸlas, he works at the mill.”

Geralt doesn’t acknowledge the introduction, “Are you planning on performing?” He asks, turning to Jaskier.

“I was thinking about it,” Jaskier says hesitantly. Geralt is fully aware of Jaskier’s predilections, as Jaskier is of Geralt’s, but the idea of outrightly stating to Geralt that he was planning on letting this miller fuck him six ways from Sunday feels more than a little awkward. 

Geralt raises an expectant eyebrow, gesturing to Jaskier to go right ahead. Never in all the time they’ve known one another, has Geralt actually invited Jaskier to sing, especially when he knows that he will be the subject. 

Jaskier’s mouth opens in surprise, “Well… I don’t even know what I’d sing.”

He meets Geralt’s eyes, the Witcher’s gaze is hard and unyielding, “Sing the one about the chimera.”

“The chimera?” Jaskier asks, feeling far too warm under Geralt’s scrutiny. 

“I like that one,” Geralt tells him simply, eyes never leaving Jaskier’s.

Jaskier licks his lips, “You- you actually like one of my songs?” 

Geralt smirks a bit, and Jaskier feels especially flushed. “It’s not terrible,” is all Geralt says, before once again gesturing for Jaskier to start singing.

Jaskier looks over to Sὸlas, who is watching their conversation with curiosity. He gives the miller a half-hearted smile, before pulling his lute to his front and stepping forward into the midst of several tables.

“Good gentlemen, and beautiful ladies, please, if I may have your attention!” Jaskier announces, putting on a winning smile for the audience. The patrons all turn their attention towards him, some looking on in interest, others in contempt. “I am nothing but a humble bard, but I would like to regale for you fine folks, the story of The White Wolf and the Bloodthirsty Chimera!”

Only a few patrons clap, but it’s enough to have Jaskier delving into song, strumming his lute with practiced fingers. He examines his audience as if they were all playing some sort of guessing game, each face telling him which lines to embolden and which to notes to hold. He circles around the tables, holding out a fairly impressive vibrato on one of the saucier lines and throwing a wink toward a dark-haired barmaid. 

He spins away from the woman and walks directly back to where both Sὸlas and Geralt are standing. Sὸlas is smiling at the performance and flushes as Jaskier gives him a particularly suggestive smirk. Geralt, on the other hand, is watching his performance with a controlled indifference, a mug of ale in hand.

When Jaskier gets to the verse about the Witcher’s silver locks, he swings by Geralt, swiping at the man’s hair with a finger, before spinning away. From his peripheral, he can see Geralt’s glare and he suppresses the urge to laugh. 

He wonders if this is how Geralt feels when he’s hunting a monster. That this one thing is what he was born to do, that nothing else could ever matter as much as this. When Jaskier hears people humming and singing along to a song that he wrote, he feels like he’s floating, that they are raising him with there hands and saying, ‘Yes, you, you are talented and you deserve this.’

Jaskier looks into the faces around him, singing the closing lines of his tune, his eyes landing on Geralt as he strums the final note. The Witcher is watching him, face controlled and measured. Jaskier wonders whether it takes effort to maintain his mask of indifference or if it's just natural at this point. 

The majority of the audience applauds, a few of the gruffer looking patrons holding out, but only one pair of hands stand out. Jaskier breaks into a grin as he watches the begrudging clap of Geralt’s hands, the corner of the Witcher’s lips turning up slightly.

“That was amazing!” A voice announces, and Jaskier turns to find Sὸlas approaching, the miller places a strong hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. 

Jaskier’s smile falters slightly, but he’s quick to recover, “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Sὸlas moves in close, his breath brushing Jaskier’s ear, “You what I’d enjoy even more?”

Jaskier pulls back and musters up what he hopes to be a saucy smirk, “Well aren’t you full of ideas.”

Speaking low, Sὸlas continues, “There still is that stable out back. That is if you’re done for the night?”

“I think I just might be,” Jaskier says, voice getting a bit low, “Unless you’d like a private performance.”

“Oh, I’m definitely planning on making you sing,” Sὸlas tells him and Jaskier can’t help but shiver at the implication. 

“Alright let me just collect my coin and I’ll meet you-”

Out of nowhere a deep voice from the back of the inn shouts, “Sing another!”

Jaskier sighs, searching for the audience member, but not finding anyone who would match, not just the low octave of the voice, but the level of fervor. Until the mysterious admirer shouted, all patrons had fallen back into their ales and food, now they too are looking around in interest.

“I appreciate the sentiment but alas, I must retire for the night,” Jaskier announces to the crowd, smiling with a placating hand.

But the rest of the inn’s inhabitants seem to have gotten caught up in the idea of another song because some of the drunker patrons begin banging on tables chanting “Another! Another!”

Jaskier gives Sὸlas an apologetic look, but the miller merely waves it off. Jaskier smiles back, not only did he find one of the few fuckable people in this pitiable village, but the man doesn’t seem to be a total prick. Things might just be turning around for him.

“Alright, alright!” Jaskier concedes, and the drunkards cheer. The bard turns back, not to Sὸlas, but to Geralt, only to find the Witcher gone. 

Facing back towards the audience, he sees Geralt weaving between the throng of patrons, back towards the bar.

When Geralt gets close, Jaskier asks him, “Where’ve you been?”

“Had to feed Roach,” Geralt answers, his mouth a hard line.

Jaskier is about to ask another question when the Witcher practically shoves him to the middle of the room. Jaskier grips his lute in surprise. He turns back to Geralt prepared to act offended, but instead, he sees Geralt approaching Sὸlas, looking unnervingly determined.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a late update everyone! College is the fucking worst, 1/10, would not recommend. Anywho, I want to thank everyone once again for their lovely comments and kudos, and hope you all enjoy this next chapter! <3

Jaskier tries his best to focus on his audience, on his performance, but his eyes keep darting back to the conversation occurring between Geralt and Sὸlas. 

The two men do not face much of a height difference, but Geralt seems to tower over the poor miller. 

Jaskier rushes through the chorus of “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher,” as quickly as possible without making it sound completely ridiculous, his eyes rarely straying from the two.

The crowd is far more excited this go around, Jaskier having picked a fan favorite, and some patron’s eyes even light up in recognition before joining in for the chorus. All of this would ordinarily delight Jaskier, this is what he lives on, but he also really wants to end the night with a cock in his arse and Geralt might be threatening that.

He’s nearing the end of the song, drunks are singing with him, he tries to distract himself by singing at the same barmaid from earlier, but his heart and his head are both preoccupied. 

Sparing another glance, he sees Sὸlas saying something to Geralt, his brow furrowed angrily, and the Witcher is listening with a stormy expression that could’ve passed for impassive if he didn’t know the man so well. 

The last few lines are just about to pass through Jaskier’s lips when he sees Geralt storm off. He turns back and sees Sὸlas still standing by the bar, and the miller actually looks a tad triumphant, something that has hope swirling in Jaskier’s gut. Perhaps not all is lost. 

Strumming the final note, the audience applauds, some individuals even going as far as to cheer. 

“Thank you! Thank you!” Jaskier calls out to the crowd and he hastily pulls out an empty purse, “Now if anyone feels that they can spare some coin so that this bard can get himself a room and a drink, that would be much appreciated.”

With those words Jaskier circles around the tables of the inn, a handful of patrons sparing a few coins and dropping them in the purse. All those who contribute earning themselves a winning smile from the bard.

Just as the last toothless farmer is parting with his coin, Jaskier sees Sὸlas approaching him out of his peripheral, the miller is wearing a jovial smile that manages to tug at the corner a Jaskier’s lips. 

Sὸlas grips Jaskier by the arm gingerly, guiding him away from the retreating patrons and towards a secluded corner of the inn. 

“Shall we?” Sὸlas asks, “Before we get interrupted again?”

“Fuck yes,” Jaskier almost gasps with relief, but reigns himself in, wary of passing patrons. Jaskier hasn’t gone this long without a casual rendezvous since before his time with Countess de Stael, and even then, he hadn’t been fucked by a man in the literal sense in years. 

He had once hoped that he might get there with Geralt, that the Witcher might just take out all of his frustrations with Jaskier in a carnal fashion, bend him over a table or press his face into his bedroll (Jaskier wasn’t too picky) and fuck him until he’s spent and sore in the best of ways. But now that option is quite clearly off the table, and Jaskier is just a bit bitter because he’s been aching for it ever since he and Geralt reunited, the Witcher just had to go and ruin his fantasy by being a prick about the whole thing. 

“The stables are right out that door,” Sὸlas throws a thumb over his shoulder to indicate to the spindly door behind him, “Meet me out there in two minutes?” He asks, squeezing Jaskier’s forearm gently.

Jaskier nods quickly, “Yes, definitely. Outside. Two minutes.” 

Sὸlas gives him another smile, one that Jaskier forgets to match, and then the miller walks out the door. 

Jaskier waits the allotted amount of time, resisting the urge to head out early. His stomach is tight with blossoming arousal just thinking of how he will feel in a half-hours time, how thoroughly wrecked he hopes to be when he stumbles back to his room tonight. The room he shares with Geralt. 

Pushing all thoughts of the Witcher from his mind, Jaskier decides he has waited just long enough, and he exits out the back door of the inn. He aims to come off as subtle and suave, as if he were going out to tend to the horses that no longer reside there, but he thinks his steps might be just a bit too hurried to achieve a calm demeanor.

When he steps through the door he is instantly accosted by a gust of wind, one strong enough that he grips his lute just a little bit tighter. Just outside the door stands a sizeable wooden structure with thick beams and a wooden gate left ajar. Recognizing this as the stable, Jaskier approaches, taking note of the giant gaping hole in its ceiling and praying to whichever gods are listening that he will at least get fucked before he gets crushed under the collapsing roof.

Jaskier’s boots crunch in the grass quite ominously as he approaches the building. He passes through the open gate and is startled when someone grips him by the arm roughly and he is pushed back against a rickety wall, making him let out an audible, “Oof.”

As his eyes adjust to the darkness of the stable, he is pleased to find Sὸlas in front of him, his lips pulled back into a grin that revealed nearly all of his teeth.

“I never thought we’d be alone,” is all Sὸlas says before he is slamming his lips against Jaskier’s sloppily, the miller’s light facial hair scratching Jaskier’s chin. His groin tightens and Sὸlas pushes his tongue into Jaskier’s mouth, making the bard moan. 

Sὸlas pulls back and grips the strap of Jaskier’s lute. He pulls the instrument over Jaskier’s head and places it on the ground so sweetly that Jaskier is tempted to just drop down to his hands and knees right now. Before he can make any drastic movements however, the miller comes back up to his level and begins to suck at Jaskier’s neck, biting down hard. Jaskier grits his teeth against the sting, and, feeling a bit impatient, he begins to tug at the rope that Sὸlas calls a belt. Sὸlas soothes over the mark on Jaskier’s neck with his tongue, but it still stings in a way that’s not entirely good.

“What do you want?” Sὸlas breathes in his ear, and Jaskier reaches into the miller’s trousers to grip the other man’s cock, hot and steadily stiffening in his hand. 

Jaskier groans as Sὸlas shallowly fucks into his fist, trying not to think about the time Geralt did something very similar, though with a much bigger cock. Jaskier tries _very _hard not to remember straining to wrap his fingers around Geralt’s girth. Jaskier’s cock fills almost completely at the thought and he hates himself a little for it.__

__“Jaskier?” Sὸlas whines, drawing the bard’s attention back to the cock that he actually has in hand. He picks up the pace in his strokes to make up for the neglect, thumb coming to the tip to swipe at the forming precome, spreading the slickness back over Sὸlas' cock._ _

__“Hmm?” Jaskier hums back, trying once again not to think of Geralt, especially since Sὸlas is now shoving his hand down the back of Jaskier’s pants and cupping his naked arse cheek, drawing their groins close together._ _

__“What do you want?” Sὸlas asks again, sounding increasingly breathless. Jaskier removes his hand from Sὸlas’ trousers as the miller pulls Jaskier towards him, allowing for their clothed cocks to brush, the friction harsh enough that Jaskier feels a bit more pain than pleasure._ _

__Jaskier doesn’t hesitate in answering, “I want you to fuck me.”_ _

__Sὸlas lets out a high-pitched moan, pressing Jaskier into a particularly uncomfortable beam as he ruts against him, his movements quickening._ _

__And then Sὸlas stops, his hips jerking._ _

__Jaskier’s stomach sinks, because of fucking course this is how this night would go._ _

__He does the dutiful thing and he pets the other man’s hair as Sὸlas comes down from his high, the dampness of the miller’s trousers making Jaskier’s own a bit uncomfortable._ _

__When Sὸlas finally seems to have regained his breath, he pulls away from Jaskier, giving the bard a small smile, “Gods, I really needed that.”_ _

__Jaskier gives a half-hearted attempt to smile back, trying his best to hide his disappointment, “Happy to help.”_ _

__Sὸlas gestures to Jaskier’s lower half, “Do you want me to…?”_ _

__And Jaskier really contemplates saying yes, he imagines those kind lips wrapped around his cock or the way his cock would look in Sὸlas’ fist, but he’s just not feeling it anymore. He had one thing in mind, and without that…_ _

__“Nah,” Jaskier gives Sὸlas a reassuring smile, hoping the other man knows there are no hard feelings, “I think I might just turn in for the night.”_ _

__He gives the miller a quick peck on the lips, and Sὸlas smiles back at him, his face so unguarded and happy. It makes something within Jaskier ache._ _

__“Your Witcher is a lucky man,” Sὸlas tells him, looking down at his belt as he goes to retie it._ _

__“What are you talking about?” Jaskier snorts, picking up his lute from the hay on the ground, dusting off a few stray strands. He puts the strap over his shoulder but he freezes mid-motion remembering the hushed argument between Sὸlas and Geralt, and he very quickly sobers, “What’d he say to you?”_ _

__Sὸlas just shrugs._ _

__Jaskier, however, needs answers, because as of late, he has only been getting more and more questions, “No, I saw the two of you arguing,” Jaskier starts, “Did he say something to you?”_ _

__The miller looks at him bemusedly, “He just said that you were off-limits.”_ _

__Everything stops for a second while Jaskier’s mind plays catch up. The bard’s fists tighten, nails biting into his palms with a vengeance. Through gritted teeth he forces out the question, “He what?”_ _

__Sὸlas looks even more confused, “Look, I told ‘im that obviously you wouldn’t’ve been talking to me if you were off-limits.”_ _

__“And then what?” Jaskier asks, his brain struggling to piece together whatever the fuck is going on._ _

__“Well, he just sort of stormed off in a bluster,” Sὸlas tells him, “might’ve said something about a bath.”_ _

__Jaskier’s lip curls as he marches out of the stable, “That fucking bastard.” Frustration of both the sexual and emotional sort war inside Jaskier's body as he heads back out into the night, knowing exactly where to find the meddling prick. No more thoughts spared for the extremely confused, yet satisfied, miller left behind him._ _

__He’s got a Witcher to hunt down. And if that Witcher just so happens to be naked in a tub, so be it._ _


	8. Chapter 8

He’s not entirely sure how he got to the door. He has a vague memory of yelling at the innkeeper and possibly pointing an accusatorial finger or two, but somehow it has all brought him here. 

The hallway is paneled with rotting wood, and really this isn’t the nicest of the inns they’ve stayed in, but Jaskier pays it almost no mind as he stands outside the door, his fist clenched. Does he knock?

Jaskier rolls his eyes at himself. Why the fuck should he knock?

The bard tests the door and it creaks open under his fingers. Instantly he can hear the light rippling and splashing of water. He swallows, bracing his hand against the door he pushes it all the way open. 

His trousers are still stiff from his previous exploits, making his groin experience lots of notably unpleasant friction, he clenches his teeth as he enters the room.

Overall, not the worst they’ve had, but there is no separation between the washroom and the bedroom, so as soon as he enters, he is accosted by the sight of a certain white-haired Witcher, head thrown back against the tub’s rim as he soaks up the heat of the bath. Fucking dolt has no right to be this beautiful, with all of his hairs and interesting scars, Jaskier’s jaw tightens just thinking about it. 

“What d’you want Jaskier?” Geralt asks, not even bothering to open his eyes, already pretending to be bored of the bard’s presence. Gods, the nerve of this man.

“Oh, I don’t know Geralt,” Jaskier affects an air of nonchalance, his hands falling to his hips as he approaches the tub, “Maybe some answers?” He pretends to contemplate and the Witcher finally opens his eyes, deigning him worthy of a glance it seems, “Yes, I think some answers would be nice.”

Geralt doesn’t break eye contact, “Hmm,” is all he says, then the Witcher lowers his head back to the rim of the tub.

Jaskier’s eyes narrow, “ _Hmm?! _That’s all I get?”__

__Geralt’s lip has the audacity to twitch, “Well, you have to actually ask a question to get answers.”_ _

__The bard scoffs, “As if you don’t know why I’m here.”_ _

__Geralt closes his eyes, nostrils flaring. Jaskier watches as his hands tighten on the sides of the tub, “Why are you here?”_ _

__Jaskier walks closer, till his knees touch the edge of the tub by the Witcher’s feet. Geralt blinks at him and Jaskier really wishes that Wendigo had been competent enough to at least kick the other man in the balls._ _

__“What did you say to Sὸlas?” Jaskier asks, struggling to put up an impassive façade. He really doesn’t want Geralt to know how much hangs in the balance of his answer._ _

__Geralt’s face doesn’t change at all, “Who?”_ _

__Jaskier growls causing Geralt to raise an eyebrow. “The miller,” he clarifies. Geralt opens his mouth to speak but Jaskier cuts him off, “And don’t try to play dumb and say something like ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ because I fucking saw you talk to him, I introduced you.” Jaskier meets Geralt’s eyes, “So at least do me the courtesy of not treating me like an idiot.”_ _

__Geralt studies him, “I was just making sure he wasn’t a threat.”_ _

__“A threat!” Jaskier snorts, “How so?”_ _

__The way Geralt looks at him then, it makes him feel like he is a child who has been caught playing with knives. “Do you not realize the danger you are putting yourself in?”_ _

__“What are you talking about?”_ _

__Geralt sits up fully, jostling the water all around him, “You are risking your life, and for what? To be taken like a whore out in the gardening shed?”_ _

__“It was a stable!” Jaskier snaps, “And you talk of it as if it as if you don’t do the exact same thing!”_ _

__“I don’t!” Geralt growls, his teeth bared._ _

__Jaskier leans down, placing his hands on either side of the tub, fingers mere inches from Geralt’s. He leans in until he can feel Geralt’s harsh breath on his face, “Like fuck you don’t.”_ _

__Geralt glares at him, his nostrils once again flaring as his eyes travel down to Jaskier’s crotch. The Witcher’s lip curls cruelly, “I’m not the one that reeks of another man’s spend.”_ _

__Jaskier straightens, “And I’m not ashamed of it.” He looks at Geralt disdainfully, “Why do you care so much anyway?”_ _

__“Because-” Geralt starts seemingly poised for a fight, but then it’s like someone took the fight right out of him. The Witcher closes his eyes to regain his composure, “You are going to get yourself killed.”_ _

__“By what?” Jaskier laughs without humor, “getting fucked to death?”_ _

__“You know what I mean,” Geralt says, meeting Jaskier’s eyes with such solemnity that it causes the bard to sober. “I know what people do to those they deem different.”_ _

__Jaskier looks at the Witcher, his gaze hardening, “People are just people Geralt. And I’m not going to deprive myself of living my life out of fear. And neither should you.”_ _

__Geralt fixes Jaskier with a look, searching. For a second it looks like the Witcher is going to say something, and Jaskier stands, cheeks flushed from too many emotions, waiting with bated breath, only for the other man to close his mouth and say nothing._ _

__“Right,” Jaskier says, more to himself than to Geralt. He turns away from the bath and sets his lute down on the bed. He sits beside it._ _

__Geralt begins scrubbing his arms with a rag, and Jaskier tries not to watch. He really tries. The sound of the water sloshing around is almost hypnotic, bringing back memories Jaskier really cannot afford to think about._ _

__He is plucking a bit of dried blood off the mattress when the words slip out of his mouth unbidden, “Why did you tell him I was off-limits?”_ _

__Geralt doesn’t stop his scrubbing, but he does release a rather exasperated sigh, “What?”_ _

__Jaskier rolls his eyes, “Sὸlas said that you told him I was off-limits. Why?”_ _

__Geralt groans, “Did we not just have this conversation?”_ _

__Jaskier hops up, motivated by his new line of thought, “No. You could have told him anything, you could have told him I had warts or that I was a eunuch.” He walks back towards the bath, crouching by the edge, “Why off-limits?”_ _

__The Witcher doesn’t meet his eyes, “You are like a dog with a particularly irritating bone.”_ _

__“Answer the question Geralt.”_ _

__Geralt focuses on scrubbing a particularly nasty cut on his right arm, “It seemed the simplest way.”_ _

__Jaskier can’t help but scoff, “Gods, you are such a bloody hypocrite.”_ _

__Geralt looks at him._ _

__“No, you are,” Jaskier narrows his eyes, “You swan off, fuck a witch,” Geralt tries to interrupt but Jaskier puts up a hand, “You tell me that you don’t want me, and yes, that’s all well and good, I can live with that,” he gestures to the door as if acknowledging his recent affair, “obviously!”_ _

__Jaskier leans in, and to his fascination, the Witcher does not move back._ _

__“But then. When I am about to finally get some sort of action,” Jaskier gives an exaggerated exhale, “You try and sabotage me.”_ _

__“I-”_ _

__“And don’t you fucking dare say that you were trying to protect me,” Jaskier warns, glaring at the Witcher, “Because as sweet as that is, we both know that’s utter bullshit.”_ _

__Geralt is staring at him, and for the first time, Jaskier thinks he actually looks a bit scared._ _

__“You asked me, after the whole thing with the djinn, you asked me what I wanted from you,” Jaskier tells him, resting his hands on the edge of the tub, “But what do you want from me Geralt? Because whatever is happening here,” he gestures at Geralt, “It's not working.”_ _

__He watches Geralt expectantly but the Witcher’s face is closed off. Geralt removes all traces of emotion when he tells Jaskier clearly, “You’re right. It’s not working.” The Witcher’s eyes take on a cutting coldness, “You should go.”_ _

__Jaskier feels like he’s been slapped. He looks at Geralt in hurt and confusion, but the other man looks away, which is the biggest tell of all. Jaskier lets a moment pass, just enough to see Geralt start to think about his own words when he says, “You don’t mean that.”_ _

__Geralt looks at him, and Jaskier can see how utterly tired the other man is. To his surprise, the Witcher speaks again, “You’re right,” Geralt sighs, “I don’t mean that.”_ _

__Jaskier’s face softens, “What do you want with me Geralt?” Jaskier asks again, his voice oddly gentle, possibly because he knows that this time his questions might just lead to honesty.__

__

__Geralt leans his head back against the rim of the tub, staring at the ceiling, “I don’t know.”_ _

__Jaskier studies the other man, absently wondering how his skin hasn’t gotten pruney having been in the bath this long. He waits to see if Geralt will add anything, but he already knows how difficult it is to answer such a weighted question. So, he extends an olive branch. “If I tell you, will you tell me?”_ _

__Geralt turns to looks at him, his eyes bright and Jaskier hates how much he adores their amber hue. Geralt gives a slight incline of his head, his brow furrowed like he is regretting his decision as he’s making it.__

__

__Jaskier sighs, eyes fixed on his own hands to resist the urge to look at the Witcher, “All my life I’ve been bored. Bored at home, bored in school, always bored. The only times I’m not bored are either when I’m writing my music, or when I am performing. In those moments, I feel unstoppable, like I could do anything.”_ _

__He pauses there, and glances at Geralt, ready for the other man to make some sort of cutting remark, but instead, the Witcher looks- well there’s no other word for it, he looks enraptured._ _

__Geralt’s eyes urge him to continue, and so he does, “But all of those times, I have always felt- It was always just so godsdamned lonely. But-” he cuts himself off, unable to meet Geralt’s eyes any longer, he looks at the moldy ceiling, “But when I’m with you. I have never felt bored, and I have never felt alone.”_ _

__As soon as the words leave his lips, his face grows incredibly hot and he is already admonishing himself for saying it out loud. He clears his throat, before allowing himself to look to Geralt for his reaction._ _

__The Witcher’s jaw is clenched, and Jaskier feels like he is about to get yelled at except that that would be incredibly out of place with his confession, especially given the intensity with which Geralt is looking at him._ _

__“Alright,” Jaskier grimaces, overwhelmed by the other man’s silence, “So maybe this was not a great idea on my part, but in my defense, I had to try someth-” His voice dies in his throat as Geralt begins to move._ _

__The Witcher’s hand leaves the rim of the tub slowly as if he were trying not to startle Jaskier away. Tentatively the hand reaches out and cups the side of Jaskier’s face. Geralt’s eyes search his, but other than that the other man’s face betrays nothing. The Witcher’s thumb brushes over Jaskier’s cheekbone and the bard struggles to maintain a neutral façade, his head swirling with so much shock and confusion (and just a small dash of arousal)._ _

__“Geralt?” Jaskier asks his voice sounding small to his own ears, and that’s all it takes for the Witcher’s face to fall._ _

__“Gods, I’m an idiot,” is all Geralt says, before his hand is sliding to the back of Jaskier’s head and he is pulling the bard in. Jaskier allows his eyes to fall shut as he meets Geralt’s lips in a tender kiss._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is still more that these two will need to work through before this is all over, but YAY! Finally, they kiss! I feel like I kept writing scenarios that might lead up to a kiss but then I would just make them bicker instead. Well here we are! I hope you all enjoyed, and I'll try to get the next chapter up ASAP! Thanks for reading! <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I just want to preface this by saying I'm so sorry for the wait, first it was schoolwork, then I caught the flu (which I still have yet to shake) but nevertheless, here is a chapter! And I have also extended my estimation for this fic a bit, I realized that there were a few more issues I wanted to iron out before things worked out. Anywho, thank you again to all who left me kudos and comments, you guys really are the best! Without further ado, enjoy! <3

It takes several moments for Jaskier’s brain to catch up to his lips. He had been aware that he was kissing Geralt, but now it suddenly occurs to him that he’s kissing _Geralt _. The Witcher’s tongue dips into his mouth and he instinctively responds in kind, allowing his own tongue to plunder Geralt’s mouth the way he’s fantasized about for weeks. No, that’s a lie. He’s fantasized about this ever since their last rendezvous, which also happened to be in a tub. Does Geralt have a thing for tubs?__

__Just as Geralt’s nails dig into his scalp, making him let out an involuntary groan, he comes to his senses._ _

__He gently extracts his lips from Geralt’s, which still manages to leave the Witcher gaping rather foolishly. Jaskier tries not to take any sort of vindictive pleasure in the idiotic look on the other man’s face (try being the keyword)._ _

__It’s the overwhelming warmth that he feels for Geralt, however, that has him placing his hand on the Witcher’s cheek. He even gives in to the impulse of dragging his thumb over Geralt’s bottom lip, still enticingly slick._ _

__“What’re you doing Geralt?” Jaskier asks softly._ _

__Geralt furrows his brow, “Kissing you?” He asks more than answers, his words escaping around the pressure of Jaskier’s callused thumb._ _

__“Yes, I think I picked up on that bit,” Jaskier’s lip curls in a wry smirk. “But why are you kissing me?”_ _

__To Jaskier’s surprise Geralt pushes his hand away, his face closing off, “If this wasn’t something you wanted Jaskier, you could have just told me.”_ _

__Jaskier snorts, “You didn’t exactly give me the chance.”_ _

__He watches as Geralt rips the towel from a nearby stool and stands from the water, hastily wrapping the towel around his waist. Jaskier has never known Geralt to be modest, but it seems that this type of vulnerability seems to be having an effect._ _

__Jaskier finds himself standing as well and as soon as Geralt has stepped out of the tub the bard stops his inevitable storm off with a hand against the Witcher’s bare chest. Geralt’s heartbeat is slow and near imperceptible underneath Jaskier’s fingertips, allowing the Witcher an aura of calm composure, but nevertheless, his eyes are determinedly looking anywhere but at Jaskier._ _

__“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice is sharp enough to draw the Witcher’s eyes to his. He raises the hand not on Geralt’s chest to once again cup his cheek, the bard setting his jaw in a way that not even a witcher would dare to challenge him. “ _You_ were the one who didn’t want this. The one who said this wasn’t going to happen.” Jaskier’s face twists, “And essentially called me a fool for even hoping that it might.”__

__

__

__

__

____Geralt’s face grows soft, his brow still furrowed, but no longer from rejection, “Jaskier-”_ _ _ _

____The bard cuts him off with a glare, removing his hand from the Witcher’s face, “I was mortified. The idea that that was all you thought of me made me feel so ridiculously small, and I-” Jaskier cuts himself off._ _ _ _

____He pushes himself away from Geralt and walks toward the bed, running a hand down his face. The straw mattress groans underneath his weight as he sits on its edge. Geralt watches in silence, his jaw tense with all the presumed emotions bottled up inside._ _ _ _

____“And now,” Jaskier breathes, clasping his shaking hands on his lap, “now you expect me to forget all that. All of those things you said, and for what?” He meets Geralt’s eyes, “So you can find a warm place to stick your cock for a night?”_ _ _ _

____Geralt has the audacity to look taken aback, well, as taken aback as the Witcher is capable of looking (brow scrunched, small frown, and hand tightening on his annoyingly small towel). Geralt does take a few halting steps forward though, “That’s not why I kissed you.”_ _ _ _

____“Really Geralt?” Jaskier snarks, “Then why don’t you enlighten me, because you’ve been sending me arse over tit with each one of your mood swings, and I would really appreciate some sort of clarity on the matter.”_ _ _ _

____Geralt stands in the middle of the room, still dripping from his bath, and he looks at Jaskier as if he, himself, doesn’t even know the answer. “I-” the Witcher starts, but he closes his mouth before he can get any further, his brow furrowing in such concentration that Jaskier knows that Geralt is working hard to make sure he picks the right words._ _ _ _

____Jaskier watches him in silence, and though he is not Geralt’s biggest fan at the moment, he is warmed by the fact that the other man seems to be seriously considering his question._ _ _ _

____Geralt looks pointedly over Jaskier's shoulder when he grumbles, “I never said I didn’t want this.”_ _ _ _

____Jaskier stares at him, sure he heard incorrectly, but Geralt doesn’t repeat the words, nor does he meet Jaskier’s eyes._ _ _ _

____“What?” Is all Jaskier can really think to say, because what else is there?_ _ _ _

____Geralt sighs and finally looks to meet Jaskier’s eyes, the Witcher who had so recently looked like a cornered animal, now seems incredibly determined, “I never said I didn’t want this- you- all of it. It wasn’t a matter of want.”_ _ _ _

____Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jaskier allows himself to flop back on the bed, the straw mattress and frame creaking in protest. His knees remain bent at the edge, poised to give himself easy leverage for when he can once again stomach looking at Geralt._ _ _ _

____Jaskier pulls his hand from his face, allowing his arms to starfish across the stained duvet. Speaking to the ceiling, Jaskier asks the obvious question, “If it wasn’t a matter of want, what was it? Because you sure as hell made it feel as though you didn’t want me.”_ _ _ _

____He hears Geralt move closer, the Witcher’s presence casts a shadow over Jaskier’s lower half, the dolt almost completely blocking out the lamps as he stands at Jaskier’s feet._ _ _ _

____“The djinn,” Geralt starts, and Jaskier pushes himself on his elbows to look at the other man, “it may have complicated things.”_ _ _ _

____Jaskier rolls his eyes, “Wow, Geralt. Yes, I see now, that brings all the pieces together,” He uses one of his hands to gesture vaguely with his words, “Obviously, the djinn complicated things and you ended up acting like a total prick because of it. No further explanation needed.”_ _ _ _

____Geralt meets his eyes, nostrils flaring, “Well how the fuck do you expect me to explain it when you ceaselessly feel the need to insert your substandard wit?”_ _ _ _

____Jaskier doesn’t reply, he only glares at the Witcher._ _ _ _

____Geralt inhales deeply, obviously trying to snuff out his annoyance. When he finally does speak his tone is low, and hesitant in a way that fills Jaskier with unease, “My last wish. It complicated things.”_ _ _ _

____Jaskier’s glare somehow becomes harsher, “How so?”_ _ _ _

____“I may have- unintentionally-” Geralt grits his teeth as if he has to force these next words out, “bonded myself to Yennefer,” his pale hand tightens at the closure of his towel, “in a manner of speaking.”_ _ _ _

____Jaskier had hoped that he was done staring dumbly at the Witcher, but that seems to be a constant aspect to their relationship, “Excuse me?”_ _ _ _

____Geralt glances to the ceiling briefly, looking as abashed as Jaskier has ever seen him, “I was trying to save her life and in doing so, my wish may have-”_ _ _ _

____“Forced a bond between you and the insane sorceress,” Jaskier clarifies, his voice plain and unamused. “Which required you to be a complete arseface towards me?”_ _ _ _

____Geralt steps forward again, his knees coming between Jaskier’s at the edge of the bed, “That was more my own doing than the djinn’s,” he regretfully admits._ _ _ _

____Jaskier sits up, “Was the bond what forced you to fuck the witch?”_ _ _ _

____“Well no- I don’t think so,” Geralt tells him truthfully._ _ _ _

____“So, you fuck Yennefer, I don’t care about that- or I do a bit, but I have no claim on you so I can’t really be pissed about it,” Jaskier rambles, his face level with Geralt’s chest, forcing him to crane his neck, “but then you proceed to be a total cock towards me, why?”_ _ _ _

____Geralt’s brow furrows, making the Witcher look just a bit sad, “I thought it might be better. Or at least easier,” he reaches out a hand and once again tries to cup Jaskier’s cheek, the bard doesn’t have the strength to pull away, “If I was bonded to Yennefer I knew I couldn’t start things up between us, and I didn’t want you traveling with me in hopes of something I couldn’t give. I had thought about it, but if we crossed paths with her again, I didn’t know if I’d be able to resist her draw.”_ _ _ _

____“So you didn’t want that to hurt me? You fucking off to be with Yennefer?” Jaskier asks. Geralt doesn’t answer, but his steadfast gaze is answer enough. Jaskier studies him for another moment, allowing his own hand to come up and cover Geralt’s, bringing it down to rest in his own, “What changed?”_ _ _ _

____The Witcher sighs, his hand tightening around Jaskier’s, “I quickly came to the conclusion that there is more between the two of us than a bond with Yennefer could ever manage.”_ _ _ _

____“So, between fucking the mad witch and myself, I’m the lesser of two evils?” Jaskier arches a brow, he tries to remove his hand from Geralt’s grip._ _ _ _

____Geralt holds fast though, “It wasn’t a choice between you and Yennefer,” he states, “it was a choice between who I should want and who I actually want. And despite your fucking awful singing, your unending jokes and foolish wit-”_ _ _ _

____“Is this supposed to be winning me over?”_ _ _ _

____Geralt smirks, “Despite all of that. You are the one I trust, and the one that I truly want.”_ _ _ _

____Jaskier nods, half-sure that that might be one of the romantic things anyone has ever said to him (and the words are coming from a supposedly emotionless man), but he still is not completely swayed, “In doing all this, you realize that you did end up hurting me though?”_ _ _ _

____Geralt’s mouth thins, his thumb brushes over Jaskier’s knuckles, “And I will forever regret that.”_ _ _ _

____Jaskier looks at Geralt, really looks at him, and sees the Witcher more on display than he’s ever been privy to. Jaskier knows that this is the moment he’s been waiting for, the type of coming together he has longed for, and he really needs to stop drawing it out and holding Geralt’s own idiocy over the poor man._ _ _ _

____“And you’re not doing all of this out of jealousy?” Jaskier asks, biting down a smile._ _ _ _

____Geralt himself seems to be restraining his emotions as he scoffs, “Who do I have to be jealous of? That fucking miller?”_ _ _ _

____“Now Geralt,” Jaskier softly admonishes, stroking Geralt’s forearm with his other hand, “We all get jealous sometimes,” Jaskier smirks wickedly, “there’s no shame in it. You can tell me.”_ _ _ _

____The Witcher rolls his eyes, “Not on your life, bard.”_ _ _ _

____Jaskier hums, pulling Geralt down, he allows their lips to meet._ _ _ _


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, I hope you guys are ready because this chapter turned into a monster. It is quite literally 3x as long as my longest chapter yet, and it is pretty much all smut. No joke. This fic was rated 'E' for a reason because holy hell, get ready. Once again thank you to all who comment and leave me kudos, you guys are the best! Anywho, enjoy! <3

Jaskier groans at the wetness of Geralt’s lips, the barely known pleasure of the Witcher’s mouth on his as they kiss slowly, intimately. It’s a kiss just for the sake of kissing, just to enjoy the sensation of breathing another person in and not necessarily a lead up to anything grander. Although, not to be too dramatic, but Jaskier might just pitch himself out the window if he doesn’t get to at least touch Geralt’s cock.

Geralt leans forward, bending Jaskier back as he reaches to brace a hand on the mattress. He hovers over Jaskier, licking into his mouth. The heat of the Witcher’s muscles, the promise of that sweet moment when the other man’s weight will finally settle on top of him, makes Jaskier’s stomach curl with arousal. 

Jaskier pulls away to catch his breath, his lungs burning as Geralt’s face hangs over him, lips wet with saliva as he pants hot air against Jaskier’s face. 

“Alright then?” Jaskier manages between labored breaths, a part of him still unsure of their recent developments.

Geralt huffs, something akin to a laugh, instead of answering, however, his lips find the preferred task of biting down on Jaskier’s neck. 

Jaskier yelps at the sudden onslaught of teeth and tongue, and he can feel the vibration of Geralt’s amusement against his skin. A smile breaks out on his face but it is quickly is overtaken by a moan as he brings his hand up to weave into Geralt’s white locks, holding his head in place as the Witcher laves quite thoroughly at a particularly sensitive spot just below his jaw. 

Geralt’s tongue continues to attack the same spot, over and over. He keeps licking and biting almost to the point of irritation. “You really like that spot, huh?” Jaskier asks hesitantly, grimacing even as the words leave his mouth.

Geralt grunts in return, going back to his work. Jaskier stares at the ceiling for a moment in confusion before a thought suddenly occurs to him.

Jaskier sits up instantly, his collarbone clunking painfully against Geralt’s forehead. The bard’s hand immediately flies to the spot on his neck, covering it with the palm, “Are you trying to cover up the mark Sὸlas left?” 

Geralt is rubbing his hand over his forehead, but he still seems capable of rolling his eyes, “Well what do you expect me to do? You're covered in his stench.”

Jaskier groans, “For the love of whatever Gods are looking down on me Geralt, if I didn’t want your cock so badly, I would smack you right in that ridiculously sculpted jaw.”

Geralt stalks in, eyes alight, his lips pulled back in a growl as he pushes Jaskier down onto the mattress firmly, his hand gripping the bard’s shoulder. Jaskier’s cock jumps so hard that for a second he’s worried that he broke the poor thing.

The bard does his best not to squirm as Geralt looms over him, their noses almost touching when the Witcher rasps, “How badly do you want my cock?”

Jaskier releases a high-pitched sound, a cross between a laugh and some sort of squeak, but nevertheless, he refuses for his wit to flounder, “Of course that’s the bit you focus on.” He reaches up a hand to tug on one the hairs hanging over him in a damp grey canopy, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to bed me without courting me first.”

Geralt pulls back a bit, a quick look of concern passes over his face, “Is that what you want?”

Jaskier, warmed by the thought, pretends to consider the question, “Do I want my hulking witcher to take me out for a stroll in the gardens-”

“Where do you think we are?”

“-and bring me a bouquet of freshly picked daisies, before kissing my hand and serenading me sweetly from Roach’s back?” Geralt almost looks terrified, his eyes are wider than normal, and his jaw is clenched incredibly tight. Jaskier stays silent for a moment still tugging on Geralt’s hair as he pretends to contemplate, just when he thinks Geralt might be sweating, he takes pity on the poor man, “Nah. I think a good fuck would suffice.”

Geralt actually sighs, then he is promptly diving in and capturing Jaskier’s lips once again, his hips collapsing onto Jaskier’s making both men release a grunt. Geralt nips at Jaskier’s bottom lip, as Jaskier’s hand finds its way onto Geralt’s back, still slightly damp from his bath. 

Geralt works a hand underneath Jaskier to press their chests closer together, the buttons of Jaskier’s doublet rubbing against Geralt’s bare chest, as his other hand finds its way to Jaskier’s face, cupping his cheek as he continues to explore the recesses of his mouth. Jaskier grips at Geralt’s hair roughly, making the Witcher groan against his lips. 

“You,” Geralt starts, pulling his mouth from Jaskier’s, “Are wearing far too much.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jaskier breathes, “An entire towel Geralt? This isn’t some royal court, you are completely overdressed! Gods you must be _so _embarrassed.”__

“Fuck, you are so annoying,” Geralt grumbles, but nevertheless, the Witcher pushes himself up off the bed. 

Jaskier props himself up on his elbows to watch hungrily as Geralt pulls the towel from his waist and letting it fall to the floor, revealing his glorious self. Jaskier licks his lips as his eyes take it all in. 

The scars that highlight his torso shine white under the limited lamp light, Jaskier’s eyes catch on one that spans the surface of his left pectoral, just shy of the pale nipple that is just begging to be taken between Jaskier’s teeth. Gods he wants to lick every inch of that scarred abdomen and feel the way his tongue moves over the grooves of those hard-packed ripples of muscle. And fuck. To suck the sweat from that ‘v’ covered in a promising trail of hair that so perfectly presents one of the most beautiful cocks Jaskier has ever seen. 

Now, Jaskier has seen a lot of cocks in his day, _a lot _. Geralt’s, that is what artists like himself like to refer to as a true masterpiece, the proof of some divine power. Its half-hard, but continues to fill as Jaskier watches, its pale skin reddening against the wiry grey hairs at its base, growing harder. Gods, its probably so hot to touch, like heated metal sheathed in smooth skin.__

____

____

"Are you done?” Geralt asks, sounding exasperated, but Jaskier’s not quite sure he wants to draw his eyes away. 

“In a moment,” Jaskier tells him, holding up a finger, he feels his own cock fill completely as he watches Geralt’s stiffen. “I’m just taking in the view.” 

“You’ve seen my cock hundreds of times,” Geralt grunts. 

Now Jaskier does look up to Geralt, finding the Witcher looking rather unimpressed, “Geralt, if I were about to scale the highest peak on the Continent, don’t you think I’d want to admire it first? Even if I had looked at it before, I would want to take the time to admire the feat I was about to accomplish.” 

Geralt stares at him unamused, “So my cock is your summit?”

Jaskier grins at him, “Precisely. I am a poet Geralt, I must memorize every detail as a beautiful metaphor.” 

“I thought you were a mountain climber?” 

“Shhh…” Jaskier sits up to press a finger to Geralt’s lips, he looks into Geralt’s eyes for a moment before leaning back with a sigh, “Fuck it. You’ve already butchered my process.” 

Geralt rolls his eyes before stepping forward, his fingers moving to the buttons of Jaskier’s doublet, “You are utterly ridiculous.” 

“You’re the one who wouldn’t shut up,” Jaskier counters, and the corners of Geralt’s lips lift, Jaskier reaches up to knot a hand in the other man’s hair as he brings his lips to Geralt’s jaw. He mouths along the strong bone, spending an extra moment kissing that enticing jut that the Witcher always holds too tightly. 

“Hmm,” Geralt studiously replies as he continues to divest Jaskier of his clothing, the last button of Jaskier’s lavender doublet releasing only to reveal the white shirt underneath. “Fuck, why do you wear so much?”

Jaskier kisses his way to Geralt’s ear before seductively whispering, “Fashion.”

Geralt grunts and Jaskier bites his earlobe, turning that grunt into a growl. Geralt hastily pulls the white shirt from Jaskier’s trousers. Jaskier shivers as Geralt’s hands slip under the billowy material, callused fingers running over his flushed skin.

Geralt gives one of Jaskier’s nipples a playful pinch and the bard releases a startled gasp. Geralt rolls the nub between his fingers as his lips descend on Jaskier’s. 

Jaskier digs his nails into the Witcher’s scalp and Geralt groans into his mouth, the sound making the bard’s toes curl. Jaskier pulls away and rips his shirt over his head because he needs to be naked this fucking second. 

Before the shirt even hits the ground, Geralt is on him, his lips taking Jaskier’s reddened nipple into his mouth to lavish, and Jaskier bites his lip to fight back an undoubtedly embarrassing whine. 

Geralt doesn’t pull away until Jaskier’s nipple is completely red, satisfied with his work, Geralt blows a bit of cold air on the wet skin just to watch Jaskier squirm at the sensation. 

Jaskier pulls Geralt’s up by his hair and licks into the Witcher’s heated mouth. He reaches out with his other hand to wrap his fingers around Geralt’s hard cock, Geralt grunts. 

He gives Geralt a loose stroke, his fingers struggling to properly close around the Witcher’s girth, “Gods, you are massive,” Jaskier breathes against Geralt’s mouth, “You’re going to fill me right up, aren’t you?”

Geralt groans against Jaskier’s lips, before devouring his mouth in a kiss that’s more teeth and desperation than anything else. His breath coming out in pants as Jaskier continues to stroke him. Jaskier brings his thumb to the head to collect the precome forming there, spreading it on Geralt’s length to combat the friction. 

On one particularly effective stroke, one where Jaskier adds a bit of a twist, Geralt growls and wraps a hand around Jaskier’s wrist, yanking it away and pinning it on the mattress by Jaskier’s thigh. 

“How the fuck are you still wearing trousers,” Geralt grumbles, making Jaskier laugh.

“Well someone got a bit sidetracked.”

Geralt gives him a half-hearted glare before falling to his knees between Jaskier’s splayed legs, his fingers going to the fastenings at Jaskier’s waist.

“Now this is a sight for sore eyes,” Jaskier sighs, taking in the image of the naked Witcher kneeling between his legs, his cock aches in his trousers. How has he kept the blasted things on this long?

Geralt ignores him as he rips open the fastenings, making a button fly across the room. Jaskier wants to protest the mistreatment of his clothing, but already Geralt is grabbing the sides and yanking them down, so Jaskier just decides to lift his hips because that is the fastest route to seeing Geralt’s beautiful mouth inches away from his bare cock.

Geralt tugs the trousers down Jaskier’s legs and it’s a bit awkward, though neither of them is willing to acknowledge it. Jaskier leans down to help when Geralt begins to struggle with Jaskier’s boots because those are still on of course.

“Just undo the fasten-”

“I’ve got it-”

“It doesn’t seem like you’ve got it, all that armor and you are felled by a bootstrap?”

“My armor is practical; these are decidedly not.”

Jaskier commits the image of Geralt triumphantly holding his removed boot to memory before the Witcher throws it over his shoulder. The other one comes off much easier and finally, Jaskier kicks off his trousers.

He sits there with his legs open, his cock prominently hard against his stomach, and a completely naked Witcher between his legs, life is good. Their eyes meet, and Geralt just watches him, his eyes dark as they examine every inch of his bared skin. 

Though Jaskier doesn’t often feel self-conscious the obvious comparison between there bodies makes him squirm a bit, especially when Geralt just keeps _looking_ at him, “You’re staring.”

Geralt smirks, “I’m just taking in the view.” His eyes follow the flush that spreads down Jaskier’s chest, making Jaskier even more aware of his copious amounts of body hair.

“See the issue with that Geralt, is that I’m a poet,” Jaskier starts, and Geralt raises an eyebrow in amusement, “When I look at you, I am internally composing a lovely ballad about the way your thigh muscles clench. When you look at me, the best I can really hope for is a somewhat pleased _’hmm’_.” 

Geralt smiles, actually smiles, and Jaskier feels like his chest might very well implode at the sight. 

“Hmm,” Geralt replies with that same fucking smile and Jaskier wants to hit him.

“You are such a bastard,” Jaskier tells him, and Geralt chuckles, which only makes the pressure in Jaskier’s chest grow more intense. If Geralt gives him a heart attack just from smiling and laughing at him, he is so haunting that prick.

Geralt leans in and licks a stripe up Jaskier’s inner thigh, stopping just shy of his balls only to look up at the bard, “A bastard huh?”

No no no no,” Jaskier says hastily, his cock is so hard it hurts, “Not a bastard at all, such a very pleasant man.”

Geralt chuckles again, leaning in and sucking a bruise on Jaskier’s inner thigh, soothing it with his hot tongue. He bites down a bit higher, his cheek pressed right up against Jaskier’s cock, and the bard whines as the Witcher begins to suck and lick. Jaskier reaches down to thread his fingers in Geralt’s hair, tugging hard enough to make Geralt grunt.

Geralt lifts his head and meets Jaskier’s eyes, never breaking eye contact as he wraps one of his giant hands around Jaskier’s cock, making the bard whine. Jaskier clenches his fist in the Witcher’s hair as he watches him, panting as Geralt leans just far enough to lick the bead of precome from the head.

Jaskier whimpers and the Witcher’s eyes somehow grow darker, bending down, without pause, he takes Jaskier into his mouth. 

Fuck,” is all Jaskier is capable of saying, watching the stretch of Geralt’s lips around him. Geralt hollows his cheeks as he pulls up and Jaskier thinks this might be one of the most beautiful sights he’s ever seen. 

Geralt bobs back down, taking Jaskier further, and Jaskier half hopes that he’ll get to feel the clench of the Witcher’s throat like last time. The intoxicating feeling of filling Geralt’s mouth over and over, feeling the ripples of his throat and the vibrations of his groans. Just the thought has Jaskier leaking precome into Geralt’s mouth.

Geralt sucks hard on the next pull, like he’s trying to pull Jaskier’s soul out through his cock, and the bard thinks he might just be capable. Jaskier has gotten a lot of head in his life, and he doesn’t know whether it’s just because it’s Geralt, but he swears this Witcher has a talent for sucking cock like no other.

“Do they, ah- Is sucking cock part of- oh, yes- your Witcher tra- training? Because you- _fuck!_ ” Jaskier loses the thought there, as Geralt lets the bard’s cock sink deeper into his throat. The Witcher, splays his other hand on Jaskier’s thigh, massaging the muscle as he swallows around his cock. 

Jaskier’s balls tighten as he watches the red flesh of his cock go in and out of the Witcher’s mouth, reaching down he traces a trembling finger across Geralt’s lips, dripping with saliva and oh so lovely.

There is a distinctive tug in his naval that he knows he is dangerously close to coming down the Witcher’s throat, and while the thought has him biting his lip, he has other plans. Plans that, if Geralt keeps doing _that_ , he might abandon all together just to see his come drip down Geralt’s chin. Another time. 

He pulls at Geralt’s hair and the Witcher obediently pulls off, panting raggedly, his chin wet with saliva. Jaskier groans at the state of him.

“You’re going to make me come if you keep that up,” Jaskier breathes, his chest rising and falling with exertion.

Geralt raises an eyebrow, “Isn’t that the idea?”

Not tonight,” Jaskier states plainly, hand tightening in Geralt’s hair, “I want to come with you inside me.”

Geralt groans, pressing his forehead to Jaskier’s hip, “Fuck.”

“That’s the idea,” Jaskier can’t help but quip, and Geralt lifts his head just to glare at him, making Jaskier grin back, “There’s oil in my satchel.”

In a surprising show of tenderness, Geralt presses a kiss to Jaskier’s hip bone before pushing himself to his feet. Jaskier realizes then how neglected Geralt’s cock has been, red and slick against the Witcher’s stomach. Walking with an erection is always an awkward experience, Jaskier has had to run out of several rooms in a similar state, but thankfully Geralt doesn’t have to go too far to reach Jaskier’s bag.

“Why do you have so many oils?” Geralt asks, digging through the bag’s contents.

Jaskier leans back on the bed, admiring the view of a naked Geralt crouching on the floor, “Not all of us have the gift of ageless skin, Geralt. I for one, keep up a rather strict skincare regimen that just happens to require a litany of very expensive products. Some of which may have been taken as a parting gift from Countess de Stael.”

She gave you all of these?” Geralt asks pulling out handfuls of tiny glass vials.

“Gave is a strong word,” Jaskier tells him, and he lights up when Geralt chuckles.

“So, which one do you want me to grab?”

“I made little labels, it’s the one that says, ‘Secrets of Cintra’,” Jaskier says, and he refuses to flush even when uttering the name.

Geralt looks at him, “‘Secrets of Cintra’?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, “Don’t let it go to your head or anything, I just was feeling rather dramatic that day.”

Geralt finds the desired bottle, pulling out the cork he gives it a whiff, “Chamomile?”

“Not a large amount, I don’t want a rash or anything,” Jaskier explains, “I just use it when I’m feeling a bit nostalgic and decide to have some alone time.”

Geralt stands, stalking over to Jaskier, bottle in hand. Jaskier moves up on the mattress, and Geralt kneels at the bottom, “So you use this on yourself when you want to think of me?” Geralt asks, his voice rough.

Jaskier nods, his face coloring as Geralt’s eyes burrow into him.

Suddenly the bottle is being pressed into his hand, making him look to Geralt in worry, the possibility of being rejected at this point makes his ribs want to collapse. But the look Geralt is fixing him with is one of hunger, his nostrils flared as he looks at Jaskier splayed out on the mattress, “Show me.”

Jaskier stares at him, “What?”

Geralt leans in, and grabs Jaskier’s wrist, he takes the bottle from the bard’s hand and pours some on Jaskier’s fingers, the oil dripping onto the aged duvet underneath, “Show me how you fuck yourself,” Geralt growls, “I want to see what you do when you think of me.”

Gods, if Jaskier was a little more worked up, he would come right then and there. Jaskier watches Geralt watching him, knowing that he can just say the word and Geralt would let this all go, he’d probably even get a rare apology from the Witcher. But he wants to see more of that hunger in Geralt’s eyes, and Jaskier has always loved putting on a show. 

Without saying anything, Jaskier leans back all the way, his head landing on the stiff mattress (because of course, they didn’t even give them fucking pillows), and he props up his knees, splaying them wide. Geralt watches transfixed, hands coming up to rest on Jaskier’s knees, the bottle still in hand. 

Jaskier reaches down with his oil-slicked fingers, bypassing his straining cock and balls and reaching lower, tracing a line with the oil between his cheeks before stopping at his hole. He watches Geralt’s face the entire time, the Witcher watching Jaskier’s fingers with bated breath. He circles his hole, teasing the entrance to get it to relax, before dipping a finger in, just to the first knuckle. Geralt inhales sharply.

The clench is tight, but Jaskier isn’t exactly a novice in this area so he pushes in further, the dual sensation of the tightness around his finger and the filling of his hole reminding him just why it is that he loves this. His fingers are slick enough that his finger moves without much resistance, so he begins to fuck himself leisurely, watching as Geralt’s eyes follow the movement, the Witcher’s grip on his knees tightening.

“That’s it,” Geralt is telling him, and Jaskier’s legs tremble. Geralt begins massaging Jaskier’s thigh, his own hand covered in oil, “Think you’re ready for another?”

Jaskier nods desperately, and Geralt growls as Jaskier slips in the tip of another finger. The oil just enough to reduce the friction as he scissors his opening until both fingers fit fully, the slickness of the oil mixed with the sudden fullness making him moan, a sound echoed by a groan from Geralt. The Witcher watches intently as Jaskier begins to fuck himself with more enthusiasm, his fingers slipping in and out of his oil-slicked hole with ease, but the friction is building as the oil begins to not be quite enough.

“Ger’lt,” Jaskier pants, his voice faltering, “need more oil.”

Geralt doesn’t hesitate, as soon as Jaskier is pulling out his fingers, the Witcher douses them in the liquid. The increased slickness making Jaskier’s fingers squelch obscenely.

Fuck,” Geralt groans, “You look so good like this bard.”

Jaskier moans at the words, Geralt’s rough timbre rocking through him. One of his fingers reach and rub against that one spot inside, and his toes curl as he lets out a high-pitched whine.

“You hit that spot, didn’t you?” Geralt rasps and all Jaskier can do is nod raggedly, “Do it again."

And Jaskier does, making himself gasp. He meets Geralt’s eyes, not remembering when he had looked away, and watches as the Witcher bites down on his lip, watching Jaskier’s face.

“What do you think about when you do this?” Geralt asks him, his eyes darting down to the movement of Jaskier’s fingers. Jaskier cock dribbles precome on his stomach, pained from neglect.

“You,” Jaskier gasps, picking up speed. He desperately wants to add another finger, but he also wants Geralt to be the one to tell him to do so. 

“Now who’s stingy with the details,” Geralt chuckles, his eyes dark.

“Fuck-” Jaskier’s fingers brush over his prostate again, “I- I think about your cock,” he pants, “Inside me. What you’d feel like, h-how you would stretch me out.”

“Hmm,” is all Geralt says, hand rubbing Jaskier’s shaking thigh, “I think it’s time to add another finger.”

Jaskier almost sobs with relief, pressing in a third finger easily, his hole clenching down on the bunch as he fucks himself. 

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, “You take them so well.”

Jaskier gives a startled laugh, “I’ve had a bit of- _ah_ \- practice.”

“Not with that miller though,” Geralt growls and Jaskier manages to smirk.

“So, you- _oh fuck-_ you were jealous,” Jaskier pants out, just the idea of a jealous and possessive Geralt making him pick up speed with his fingers. He thinks about how it would feel to have Geralt fuck him all pent up in a possessive fury, desperate to mark him as his own, he presses down on his prostate roughly, making his cock jerk painfully.

Geralt smirks, “Possibly.”

“Ha,” Jaskier breathes out, “I knew it.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, lifting the bottle of oil again, he pours a bit more onto Jaskier’s hole, the duvet beneath getting soaked as the liquid drips from Jaskier’s fingers, “Do you think you can take one more?”

“Fuck,” Jaskier whines, “Are you trying to kill me?”

“My cock isn’t exactly small Jaskier,” Geralt tells him plainly, he lets go of Jaskier’s thigh and lets his hand drift inward, closing on Jaskier’s wrist as he continues to fuck himself on his fingers. Geralt’s finger traces Jaskier’s knuckles, guiding the hand in their motion. Jaskier watches the whole thing in awe.

“Yes,” Jaskier gasps distractedly, watching the movement of Geralt's hand, “I am so sorry fo-for your misfortune of having a ma- massive cock.”

Geralt lines one of his fingers up with Jaskier’s and as Jaskier’s fingers slip into his hole, Geralt allows the tip of his own to slip passed the rim, making the bard groan at the stretch, “I just don’t want to hurt you,” Geralt tells him earnestly, his own voice ragged as he watches his finger breach Jaskier. 

“Be-believe me Geralt,” Jaskier pants, “You c-could probably sta-stab me at this- _oh fuck me_ \- at this point, and I’d prob-probably thank you.”

“Not exactly reassuring,” Geralt grunts, his finger slipping in past the first knuckle and Jaskier’s hole burns at the stretch, but his movements have slowed to guide the finger in along his own.

“Ah,” Jaskier gasps as Geralt’s finger finally slips in fully, stretching him in a way that must look incredibly obscene, “Well, then let’s- ah- let’s say that if you- fuck- if you don’t get up here and fuck me, with your- your giant cock,” Jaskier throws his head back as the group of fingers move inside him, one brushing against his prostate, “thenIwillfuckingstabyou- _Get the fuck up here!_.”

Geralt groans, “Fuck, what am I even saying?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Jaskier has to grit his teeth, his cock is positively aching. He pulls his fingers as well as Geralt’s out of him, his hole clenching around the emptiness left behind, “Get up here.”

Geralt tips a bit more oil on Jaskier’s hole, before pouring some into his own palm, using his hand to slick up his own neglected cock. Jaskier has a feeling neither of them is going to last long. 

Grabbing the cork from the mattress Geralt reseals the bottle, tossing it down on the bed before climbing over Jaskier. 

“How do you want me?” Jaskier asks, because Geralt is approaching him like he wants to do this face to face, and that is not exactly something Jaskier is used to. 

“Like this,” Geralt says, reaching up with his non-oily hand to cup Jaskier’s cheek, “I’d like to see your face if that’s okay?”

Jaskier’s heart leaps into his throat as he nods, already grabbing at Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt briefly allows their cocks to brush against one another as he brings his hips down, and Jaskier groans at the sensation.

Then Geralt is lifting one of Jaskier’s legs, placing it over his hip, making Jaskier’s hips lift from the mattress. Grabbing it by the base, Geralt guides his cock towards Jaskier’s entrance. The head of his cock nestles in Jaskier’s rim, and the bard’s breath catches. Finally, he is going to be fucked within an inch of his life by this gorgeous Witcher. 

Geralt’s eyes meet his, and Jaskier is drowning in their warmth, in all the unspoken things that still linger between them. Geralt watches him as he begins to push inside, Jaskier’s rim stretching and burning as it tries to give to Geralt’s girth. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier pants, and Geralt’s face his fixed with concentration as he pulls back a bit, only to push in further. Even with the oil and all the preparation, the fit is still incredibly tight, and Jaskier is bordering between pain and pleasure with every passing second. 

Geralt pulls out a little more, before pushing in further, his jaw clenched tightly as he tries to contain himself, “Are you alright?” Geralt grits out, his voice hoarse.

Jaskier nods, “Just keep going.”

So Geralt does. This time when he pulls out, he pushes in all the way, Jaskier’s hole stretching painfully as Geralt bottoms out. The fullness is something Jaskier has never experienced, not at this level, Geralt is by far the biggest cock he’s ever had, and the burn of it is extraordinary. Yes, it hurts a bit, and he will definitely be walking differently for the next week, but gods be damned if the feeling of being filled by _Geralt_ isn’t the greatest one he’s ever experienced. And the bastard hasn’t even moved yet!

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasps, his face buried in Jaskier’s collar bone, “You alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Jaskier pants, “Just give me a moment.” Jaskier closes his eyes as he attempts to adjust to the stretch of Geralt inside of him, so hot and hard, filling him completely, “Don’t let this go to your head, but yours is undoubtedly the biggest cock I’ve ever had inside my person, so I just need to- ah- adjust a bit.”

Geralt breathes, “Alright,” he presses an open kiss to Jaskier’s neck, “Fuck, you feel so good.”

Jaskier hums as Geralt continues to pepper his neck with kisses, slowly adjusting to the feel of the other man. 

He reaches up a hand to twine his fingers in Geralt’s hair, “I-I think you can move now,” Jaskier tells him, trying his best to ignore how his own voice trembles.

Geralt doesn’t need to be told twice, as soon as the words have left Jaskier, the Witcher is pulling back carefully. Jaskier marvels at the sensation of the absence being left, Geralt’s hips move in a smooth and careful rowing motion as he pushes back in. Jaskier has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Geralt does this, again and again, each time maintaining the same careful speed, as if he is afraid that he’ll break the bard.

The pain from the initial stretch fades quickly as Jaskier feels himself being filled so completely. With each pull comes an absence inside of Jaskier, a hunger for more, while with each push he relishes in the feeling, the slick drag of Geralt’s cock inside him as he is being filled. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes on a particularly good thrust, and Geralt hums against his neck before pulling back out and repeating the motion. 

Jaskier uses the leg hooked around Geralt’s hip to try and speed up the Witcher’s movement, and Geralt quickly catches on. He lifts his head to meet Jaskier’s eyes as he begins to piston into him, still not exactly harder, but faster than before, still reluctant to exert his full strength. 

“Ah,” Jaskier pants, “Geralt?” the other man gives a nod to show he’s listening, his brow slick with sweat, “As lovely as this is- _oh fuck_ \- I’m not go- going to break if you actually fuck me.”

Geralt’s eyes darken but he still looks hesitant. Jaskier meets his gaze and gives an incredibly hard tug on the Witcher’s hair.

“Fuck me, Geralt,” Jaskier commands, and Geralt groans. He grips Jaskier’s other leg under the knee and bends it back a bit, just enough to get his cock deeper before Geralt really starts to fuck him.

Each thrust is hard and deep, jolting Jaskier up the bed as Geralt pounds into him. The Witcher grunts with every thrust and it is legitimately everything Jaskier has ever dreamed, especially when Geralt starts to hit his prostate.

“Oh-oh fuck,” Jaskier gasps, as Geralt aims directly at that spot hitting it again and again. 

“Fuck,” Geralt growls, his lips right by Jaskier’s ear, “You are so fucking tight.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier pants, “I- I mean I don’t have much con-control over tha- _oh fucking hell!_ -” Geralt bends Jaskier’s leg a bit more, bring Jaskier’s knee closer to his chest, bending him in a way that makes Jaskier incredibly thankful that he’s flexible. The depth that Geralt is achieving is simply marvelous, Jaskier can swear he can feel Geralt’s cock in his throat. 

Geralt moans and Jaskier’s cock dribbles endlessly on his stomach, neglected but so fucking hard that Jaskier is pretty positive he may die. 

“Fuck Geralt,” Jaskier rasps, looking down briefly to watch as Geralt’s humongous cock disappears into his body, watching his rim stretch gloriously around its incredible girth. 

Geralt’s head almost bumps his as the Witcher looks down as well, and Geralt actually whines from the sight, making Jaskier’s toes curl. Jaskier now has a new life mission: Get Geralt of Rivia to make that sound as often as possible.

Do you see that Geralt?” Jaskier asks, his breathing labored and his words shaky as Geralt continues to pound into him, “See how your cock is stretching me, filling me up.”

Geralt makes the sound again, and Jaskier’s balls tighten so hard that he’s worried he might come already, and this amazing feeling will end.

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes into his ear, his own voice unsteady as he pushes in faster, his cock determinedly hitting that spot in Jaskier over and over. 

“Did you think- ah- about this, Geralt?” Jaskier pants, “When you- you would fuck your own fist?” Geralt groans and Jaskier keeps talking, “Did you picture being buried inside me, my hole just begging to be filled up?”

“Fuck, _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt growls, and the Witcher reaches between them to grip at Jaskier’s cock roughly. Jaskier cries out at the touch, having gone neglected for so long. 

“Answer me, Geralt,” Jaskier rasps, tugging sharply at Geralt’s hair. The Witcher jacks the bard’s cock in time with his own thrusts, hard and unrelenting, the friction of his callused hands almost overwhelming, “Do you think a- about me when- when you touch yourself?”

“Yes,” Geralt grunts against his ear, fucking Jaskier hard and fast, his hand stripping Jaskier’s cock to match. 

It’s all so much and Jaskier is so close, “Do you ever fuck yourself with your- your fingers,” Jaskier groans, turning his face to breathe against the Witcher’s cheek, “Wishing it- it was me inside you?” He hears Geralt’s breath falter, “Wishing it was my cock filling you up?”

Geralt whines again, and fuck all, Jaskier is just on the precipice, Geralt’s cock driving against his prostate time and time again, and he is so close, and all it takes is that sweet growl of, “ _Yes._ ” And Jaskier is spilling over Geralt’s hand with a groan, come dripping over the Witcher’s knuckles and splashing up onto both his and Geralt’s chests. 

Everything feels so wonderful as Jaskier’s hole clenches around Geralt’s cock, still moving inside him. The sweet feeling in his gut rippling over and over as he grits his teeth, dribbles of come still spilling from his cock with every jolt.

Geralt moans deeply, his hand falling from Jaskier’s cock as he continues to fuck into Jaskier’s sensitive hole. Jaskier is content just to feel Geralt moving inside of him, he pets the Witcher’s hair, still groaning with every thrust into his sated body. 

He reaches down and grips Geralt’s hand, the one still covered in his own come. Meeting Geralt’s eyes, who is looking at him wildly as he thrusts with abandon, Jaskier brings the hand to his mouth and takes in Geralt’s come covered thumb, giving it a hard suck.

Geralt groans, eyes dark and boring into Jaskier’s as he fills him once, twice, three more times before his brow furrows and his jaw clenches and he is spilling inside of Jaskier, his spend painting the bard’s insides with every jerk of hips. Jaskier had thought he had felt full before, but its nothing compared to the feeling he has now.

Geralt collapses to the side of Jaskier, his forehead on the bard’s shoulder, his cock pulling out of Jaskier quite abruptly. Leaving the bard feeling decidedly empty as the come leaks from his stretched hole.

He can already feel the soreness coming on, but the high of his orgasm is enough to stave off the pain for now. Right now, he just wants to luxuriate in the feeling of Geralt’s sweaty body glued to his side, and the feeling of the Witcher’s breathless pants against his neck. 

“Well,” Jaskier sighs, letting his fingers play with Geralt’s hair as they both start to come down, “that was something.”

Geralt snorts, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Jaskier’s neck, the bard allows his eyes to fall closed at the touch.

He must doze off because suddenly Geralt is cleaning them both up with his discarded, and still adequately damp, towel, and Jaskier cannot remember the other man even leaving the bed. 

It’s rare when Jaskier’s lovers make an effort to tidy up after, so the image of Geralt rubbing the come out of his chest hair is making him ridiculously emotional. The tenderness Geralt treats him with as he cleans between Jaskier’s legs makes his eyes water. Fuck, he needs to get some sleep. He tries to lift an arm to help Geralt, but his body is so exhausted and sore that he gives up instantly, deciding to let Geralt do what he will.

The Witcher tosses the towel on the floor and pulls at the duvet to try and clamber beneath.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier groans in response, only then realizing that he had once again let his eyes slip closed. “Get off the fucking blanket.”

Jaskier groans again, futilely rolling to the side, his effort to help. 

Obviously, his roll was not enough because Geralt then tugs hard at the duvet edge, dragging Jaskier across the surface of the bed as he manages to free the blanket.

The last thing Jaskier remembers before drifting off is the feeling of being wrapped in warm arms, his head pillowed on muscled flesh, and a rather smelly blanket scratching his nose.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, gang, this is it. First I want to say I am very sorry this took so long, the world is going absolutely crazy right now, and life keeps throwing me all these curveballs (ah, sports, a world I only touch through idioms). Anywho, I really want to thank all you lovely folks who have read my story, and I want you to know that I really appreciate it (Seriously, I cannot even express how much). And to all of you who have left me beautiful kudos and gorgeous comments, you guys are the best, and honestly, every time I get an email notification from AO3 I get so excited, to the point where I was reading a comment and my mother asked me "Who ya texting?" far too suggestively. I shudder just at the recollection. Anyway, sorry for the long-winded Note, it is 2:30 AM and I'm feeling sentimental, without further ado, here it is! Enjoy! <3

The last time Jaskier had woken up in the arms of a witcher it had been one of the most awkward moments of his life. Granted, the circumstances then were quite different. At the time he had been rejected and confused and waking up in the arms of the man responsible for both those feelings only added to that clusterfuck. 

But things are different now. They just fucked for fuck's sake! Legitimately, cock in arse- fucked. And yet he still elects to feign sleep, if just for a little while. 

Geralt’s arms are a cocoon of warmth, all tender and protective. He knows the moment he opens his eyes he risks giving that up. Geralt’s fingers idly trace patterns on his bare back and Jaskier counts every circle. He catalogs every puff of breath against his hair, wondering which will be the last. How many more moments can he steal before Geralt grows tired of holding him?

He worries that as soon as he opens his eyes Geralt’s demeanor will shift, much like it did that other morning. He replays Geralt’s words from the night before, trying to reason against his maudlin thoughts. Ah, the life of an existential poet!

“You do realize your breathing changes when you wake?” Geralt’s voice rumbles, his chest vibrating with the words beneath Jaskier’s cheek. Jaskier freezes.

“Ah,” the bard says, propping his chin on Geralt’s ridiculously defined chest. His breath catches in his throat. Geralt is sleep ruffled and has the most gorgeous case of sex hair that Jaskier has ever seen. It has suddenly become an active job to keep himself from drooling. 

Geralt continues to draw shapes on Jaskier’s spine, looking lazily pleased. Jaskier’s muscles loosen under the touch.

“So, you can sense that sort of thing?” Jaskier asks casually.

Geralt shrugs, “Not exactly difficult when the person has the breathing of a banshee.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, “Are you saying I breathe loudly?”

“Exactly.”

“Wow,” Jaskier gasps around a growing smile, “I’ll have you know that my breathing is a result of years of vocal training and that you sir, are insulting an expert- er- breather.”

Geralt snorts, “Yes, how could I doubt it.”

Jaskier searches his face, a quiet contentment slipping over him as he sees his Witcher’s face devoid of tension. He pushes himself up far enough to kiss Geralt.

Though it catches Geralt by surprise, he is quick to respond. Jaskier leisurely licks into Geralt’s mouth and the Witcher’s hand grips his waist.

He places one more peck on Geralt’s lips, a small self-indulgence before his next, and possibly destructive, words.

“You knew I was awake, didn’t you?” He asks.

Geralt’s brow scrunches, “Didn’t we just-?”

“The other morning. The morning after Rinde,” Jaskier says, and he watches Geralt’s face change. He expects the Witcher to close off, but Geralt’s thumb continues to rub circles on his hip.

“Yes,” Geralt says, and it isn’t a growl or a pained admission, nothing like Jaskier was expecting. Instead, it’s a confession, one that Geralt releases like a weight off his chest.

Jaskier reaches up to cup Geralt’s cheek, Geralt leans into the touch, “Why then?”

Geralt doesn’t pretend not to know what he’s talking about, which Jaskier internally revels in. Though the Witcher doesn’t look thrilled at the idea of sharing more of his witcher-y thoughts.

Jaskier presses another quick kiss to Geralt’s lips to hopefully spur him on.

“I-” Geralt starts, but he hesitates. He looks at Jaskier almost pleadingly, already asking to be forgiven, their noses inches apart, “I wanted to get away with it.”

Jaskier purses his lips, “How d’you mean?”

Geralt grits his teeth, and Jaskier is partially mesmerized by the clench of his strong jaw, “I wanted to be able to touch you,” Geralt says, “to pretend. And not have to talk about it after.”

Jaskier doesn’t rear back, but he does frown, “Because you knew I wouldn’t mention it if I thought you thought I was asleep.”

Geralt gives a stiff nod. Jaskier must collect himself and Geralt watches on in trepidation. The Witcher looks outright panicked when Jaskier’s shoulders start shaking violently, “Fuck. Jaskier I-”

Jaskier bursts out laughing. 

Geralt looks both scared and concerned. This only makes Jaskier laugh harder, his hand on Geralt’s cheek shaking in his mirth.

“How the fuck-” Jaskier pants through his laughter, “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!”

Geralt frowns, “Well I-”

“No, no, no, don’t get me wrong,” Jaskier wheezes, tears forming in his eyes, “It’s very sweet in a whole forbidden longing sort of way. But honestly! All these little shit things stacked one after the other- Gods! We are such idiots.”

Geralt wipes a tear from under Jaskier’s eye, still looking confused, “I’ll admit to that, but fucking hell Jaskier…”

Jaskier tries to contain himself, “Really, we have both been utterly horrible at this, you-” he pinches Geralt’s cheek just to watch him scowl, “-more so but, nevertheless- here we are!”

“And yet… here we are,” Geralt echoes, a hesitant smile perched on his perfectly sculpted lips. 

Jaskier kisses Geralt again, a warmth coiling in his abdomen. Geralt pushes his fingers into Jaskier’s hair as he deepens the kiss, his other hand moves down, still a bit hesitant, as he squeezes Jaskier’s arse. Jaskier groans into the Witcher’s mouth, his tongue moving against Geralt’s lazily.

Jaskier slides up Geralt’s body, spreading his legs to straddle the Witcher. He settles himself on Geralt’s lap as he continues to lick into Geralt’s mouth. The Witcher’s nails scrape against his scalp as Jaskier bites down on Geralt’s lower lip, tugging playfully. 

Geralt’s cock seats itself in the crease of Jaskier’s arse which regrettably makes Jaskier recognize the sudden discomfort of dried come on his skin from the previous night’s events. 

“You know,” Jaskier says, releasing Geralt’s lip with a ‘pop’, “I think I’m going to head downstairs.”

Jaskier sits up, actively ignoring Geralt’s gorgeous stiffening cock beneath him, swinging a leg over the Witcher to clamber off the bed.

“What?” Geralt asks, face full of confusion as his hands still hover over where they had just been on Jaskier’s body.

Jaskier shivers as he leaves the heat of the duvet and his Witcher. _His_ Witcher. He smiles, supposing that it’s no longer too forward of him to think of Geralt as such.

Geralt stares at him as Jaskier moves around the bed, collecting his trousers from where they had been kicked off the night before. He slips them on, but finding his boots is a bit trickier. 

He finds the first easy enough, pulling it on. But the second evades his gaze.

“Do you know where you threw my other boot?” Jaskier asks the befuddled Geralt, who has finally allowed his hands to fall to his lap. “I also did not appreciate the poor treatment of my garments by the way,” Jaskier says, “This boot is all scuffed up!” He kicks up his foot to show off the shoe, internally delighting at Geralt’s dumb face, “This is genuine Redanian leather, extremely valuable, I’ll have you know. But you probably get all your boots for _practical purposes_. No sense of craftsmanship.”

Geralt is still staring at him, his hands clutching the duvet.

“Ah, there she is,” Jaskier says, bending down to pick up his other boot, which managed to make its way behind the tub. He slips it on, choosing to ignore the obvious fray in the stitching. “You know, Geralt,” Jaskier starts, walking over to the bed to snatch his shirt off the floor, “It really wouldn’t kill you to enhance your wardrobe. Add some silks here, some satin there- well I guess it could potentially kill you if you met one of your little friends without your armor, but it would be nice if we had something to dress you in next time we happen across a ball. Something that doesn’t make you look like- what was it Mousesack said? ‘A sad silk trader’?” 

Jaskier gives his shirt a cursory dust off before slipping it on, Geralt’s eyes narrow and Jaskier bites down a smile.

“Especially if you added some more color,” Jaskier continues, “You would look absolutely gorgeous in a sort of lapis blue. Granted it would be an expense, but I have a friend- well friend is a bit strong- but this seamstress who I had a brief affair with, she could probably get me a fine deal on some garments of that color.” He leaves the laces of the shirt loose enough to tease just a bit of his chest hair.

“Why the fuck are we talking about clothes?” Geralt asks looking mightily annoyed. He is quite the sight with the blankets are pooled around his waist and his pale chest all exposed and oh so very muscled. Gods, resisting the urge to pounce on this man a take his cock down his throat is quite literally tearing Jaskier apart.

“Because, dear Geralt,” Jaskier says, “for someone who ruins clothes as quickly as you do, you lack any sense of variety,” he walks over to Geralt’s bedside, forcing the Witcher to look up at him, which is in itself a lovely sight. He leans down and presses a kiss to Geralt’s lips, too quick for the Witcher to respond (despite his heightened reflexes), “I’ll be back.”

And with that Jaskier walks out the door, cornering off a special section in his mind to forever replay the sight of Geralt’s confused and utterly ridiculous face.

⁙⁙⁙⁙

Jaskier returns to the room not fifteen minutes later, carrying two basins of hot water while two of the innkeeper’s daughters follow him, also carrying basins. He could just ask them to prepare the bath, but that would require letting them inside the room, which would completely spoil the surprise. It would also obviously out him and Geralt, but he likes to pretend that that isn’t a factor.

After kindly asking the girls to leave the basins by the door while he takes care of the rest, he sends them off with an overly generous amount to coin in their palms.

Jaskier nudges the door open with his shoulder and, much to his disappointment, he finds Geralt sitting at their small table polishing his silver sword, _clothed_.

“Well this is disappointing,” Jaskier says, setting the basins down just inside the door before pushing the others inside as well. He shuts the door, embarrassingly out of breath. 

“Hmm?” Geralt hums, his concentration on what must be a particularly tricky spot. Sighing, the Witcher puts aside his rag to look up at Jaskier, his eyes catching on the multitude of basins, “So this is what you were off doing?”

Jaskier nods, placing his hands on his hips proudly, “Yes, I figured it would be a nice unwind after a harrowing few weeks.”

“Harrowing?”

“Emotionally harrowing, at least on my part,” Jaskier says as he approaches his witcher, “And I’m sure even your constipated emotions felt a bit of a twinge, what with all of your silent longing and lingering glances- I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did.”

Geralt lets Jaskier pry his sword from his hand and set it on the table. Jaskier promptly settles himself on Geralt’s lap. “Hmm,” Geralt loquaciously replies, letting his hands settle on Jaskier’s waist.

“So as a celebration, I was thinking we could both indulge in a nice hot bath,” Jaskier looks over his shoulder to the tub, “Might be a bit of a squeeze, but I assure you, I am very flexible.”

Geralt huffs in amusement, “I’m aware.” His thumbs rub circles on Jaskier’s hips and Jaskier thinks that he could easily get used to this sort of thing. Geralt leans forward and captures Jaskier’s lips in a soft kiss, one so sweet it makes Jaskier’s toes curl.

“So that’s a yes?” Jaskier asks, pulling back.

“I’d be a fool to say no,” Geralt says, and Jaskier must remind himself that Geralt was just polishing a silver sword so no, he hasn’t been replaced with a doppler or a shapeshifter of some other sort.

Jaskier grins at Geralt happily and gives him a quick peck on the lips before hopping up from the chair. 

He makes quick work of filling the tub, waving away any attempts from Geralt to help, because even though Geralt is a brooding dickhead, Jaskier still wants to do something nice for the other man (and himself as well). Though by the fourth basin, Jaskier thinks Geralt’s muscles might’ve been an asset in the whole carrying and pouring process. Jaskier makes a note to ask Geralt to train him a bit when they get back on the road.

When the tub is finally filled Jaskier digs through his satchel to find a couple of nicely scented and rejuvenating oils, and he adds them to the water filling the small room with the refreshing scent of honeysuckle and lavender. He also sets out a few cleansing oils, good for hair and all that (because he desperately wants to wash Geralt’s hair again).

Arms snake around his waist as he stands up from the tub. A rough voice rumbles in his ear, “Now can I take your clothes off?”

Jaskier swallows roughly, and the nod of his head is so enthusiastic that it’s a miracle he doesn’t break Geralt’s nose. Geralt huffs a laugh, and pulls Jaskier’s shirt loose from his trousers, hot hands slipping beneath to feel Jaskier’s bare skin.

Geralt inhales deeply into Jaskier’s neck his nose brushing against Jaskier’s skin. The Witcher’s lips press where his neck meets his shoulder, opening softly to lick and bite at the spot. Jaskier lets his head fall back onto Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt’s hand moves down to unbutton Jaskier’s trousers, and the bard lets out a reedy sigh when Geralt’s hand slips inside to grip his cock.

“Fuck Geralt,” Jaskier whines letting a hand reach up and behind to grip at the Witcher’s hair. Geralt growls as he presses another kiss to his neck.

Geralt’s hand doesn’t linger there long, however, instead, he gives Jaskier’s cock a few brief tugs, just enough for Jaskier to begin to stiffen, before pulling away. He moves to grip at the sides of Jaskier’s trousers before pulling them down slowly, allowing himself to move down with them.

Where Jaskier’s hand had been gripping the Witcher’s hair now remains only empty air as he hears Geralt clunk to his knees behind him. The cold hit his backside as his trousers find their way around his ankles, and he shivers at the image of Geralt behind him.

Suddenly there are two warm palms on the cheeks of his arse, massaging the muscle, and Jaskier is resentful that he has nothing to steady himself. 

“Fuck,” Geralt growls, Jaskier can feel his breath against his skin, “You’re beautiful.”

Jaskier releases a shaky laugh, “I’m sure you say that to all the bards.” While he had been a little insecure the night before, Geralt’s words are like a balm he didn’t know he needed, soothing his nerves even as a flush burns across his skin.

Geralt bites down on his left cheek and Jaskier gasps, his hands gripping at his shirt in desperate need of something to hold on to. Geralt licks at the skin and Jaskier's cock reaches full hardness. He feels Geralt’s reply more than he hears it, “Just the ones who are annoying as fuck all.”

Jaskier reaches a hand back to sink his hand back in Geralt’s hair, he gives it a sharp tug (which he is just now realizing has become one of his favorite activities), “Well that’s very rude seeing as I was just about to let you fuck me again. But maybe I should go find someon-”

He is cut off by his own moan as Geralt spreads his cheeks and licks a rough stripe over his hole. 

His grip on Geralt’s hair tightens to the point that if Geralt would human, he may be in significant pain. Instead, Geralt just grumbles contently as he licks again, undoubtedly tasting remnants of himself there. Jaskier’s knees start to shake.

“ _Geralt_ ,” is all Jaskier can manage between pants as Geralt licks again and again and again and againandagainandagainandagain. 

Jaskier is trembling when Geralt finally pulls back, “I could open you up like this,” Geralt tells him, the Witcher leans back in to dip his tongue just past the rim, Jaskier keens. Geralt pulls back again, “I could get you loose and wet for my cock.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jaskier breathes, his cock dribbles out a bit of precome and his hands shake as they clutch at Geralt’s hair.

Geralt stands suddenly and Jaskier stumbles forward, “But the bath might get cool.” 

Jaskier looks at him with his mouth agape. Geralt ignores him, and instead pulls his black shirt over his head, kicks off his boots, and lets his tight trousers drop to the floor. 

He doesn’t even glance in Jaskier’s direction as he strides past to climb into the bath.

“You-you-” Jaskier stares at him as Geralt gets settled in the water, his pale skin looking all too tempting against the ripples clouded with oils, “You cock!”

Geralt raises an unimpressed eyebrow, before reaching over to grab a rag from the stool at his side, “Think of this as repayment.”

“For what?” Jaskier asks, placing hands on his hips. What a figure he must cut right now, white shirt billowing, pants around his ankles, leaving his cock very much exposed and still painfully hard. He would be embarrassed if he wasn’t so annoyed.

“This morning,” Geralt says idly as he begins to scrub his arms.

“Oh no you don’t,” is all Jaskier says before he’s throwing his shirt over his head. He leans down to undo his boots (because they are not ones that should be kicked away) before stepping out of them and stepping out of his trousers. All of this done in a matter of seconds and all while under Geralt’s pointedly amused gaze.

Jaskier strides over to the bath and Geralt just barely manages to move his arms out of the way before Jaskier is straddling him. Water splashes over the edge of the tub as he arranges himself in the space that certainly wasn’t meant for this many limbs, let alone two grown (or in Geralt’s case, overgrown) men.

He links his arms around Geralt’s neck and the Witcher smirks at him, “Comfortable?”

Jaskier grins cockily, “Extremely.”

He doesn’t even know how it happens, Geralt’s face twisting into a wicked grin should’ve tipped him off, but nevertheless he is unable to prepare for the basin of water that is unceremoniously dumped over his head.

He splutters as water pours down his face, going up his nose.

Geralt laughs, and really that is the only thing that is keeping Jaskier from being completely pissed at the moron.

“You are such a dickhead,” Jaskier says, wiping the water from his face.

Geralt smiles, “And yet… here we are.”

“Okay, you really need to stop quoting me back to me or I’m going to start thinking that you’re growing sentimental in your old, _old_ age.”

Geralt hums, moving a hand out of the water to cup the back of Jaskier’s head, dragging him down for a soft kiss, he mumbles against Jaskier’s lips, “Turn around.”

Jaskier shivers at the words but does as he’s told. He awkwardly untangles himself with Geralt, losing more bathwater in the process, before resituating himself between the Witcher’s knees, which are spread obscenely wide.

He can’t imagine that this position is particularly comfortable for Geralt, but as per usual, the Witcher doesn’t complain. Jaskier leans back against Geralt’s chest, relaxing as the Witcher’s hands smooth over his thighs.

“Can I wash your hair?” Geralt asks softly, sounding a bit unsure. Jaskier smiles to himself before leaning over the edge of the tub, water splashing yet again. Jaskier doubts they’ll be any water left when they’re done at this rate. He reaches over and grabs his expensive oils, the one labeled-

“ _Cintran Silk_ ,” Geralt reads out, “Really?”

Jaskier sighs dramatically, “Alright, yes, I am _very_ nostalgic. But honestly, you only get to wash the hair of The White Wolf for the first time _once_. So, to commemorate-”

“You are ridiculous,” Geralt says, but Jaskier swears he can hear a smile in his voice. Geralt takes the vial and pours some of the oil into his palm nonetheless, he then brings his hands together in front of Jaskier to rub in the oil.

“Calm down with the rubbing, will you? This stuff is not exactly meant to be wasted on your callusy hands,” Jaskier says, and Geralt huffs.

The Witcher brings up his hands and sinks his fingers into Jaskier’s hair, massaging the oil into his brown locks. 

Geralt’s nails work the oil into his scalp, scratching so deeply that Jaskier’s toes curl. “I could really get used to this,” Jaskier hums, letting his eyes fall shut.

Geralt hums in return, letting them fall into silence as he continues to wash Jaskier’s hair.

Jaskier is not what one would call accustomed to being taken care of. Sexually, sure, he’s taken care of quite often, and by many willing participants, but this feels very different than all that. Maybe once or twice someone offered to help with clean up, maybe. With women, he was a gentleman and always offered, but with other men, it was usually expected that they part ways as quickly as possible. Exactly one time he remembers actually waking up with another man, and that was merely because the baker had passed out on top of him and left him crushed underneath his sweaty yeasty body all night. Never, has Jaskier been bathed by a lover.

Sure, he’s shared baths in the past, but once again, with women, it was him doing the washing and the worshiping, and with men, it was usually a quick exchange of jacking each other off before they pretended to have never met. 

Jaskier finds he adores the intimacy of being washed, of being desired for himself, of being seen not as a worshipper of the women he calls muses or as a quick fuck in the dark, but as a companion (to his one true muse).

“You’re thinking to much,” Geralt says, his voice rumbling in Jaskier’s ear, “This is supposed to be relaxing.” Geralt punctuates his words by guiding Jaskier's head back and tipping the basin of water over his hair, this time avoiding his face. Jaskier hears Geralt splutter a bit behind him.

“How much of that water splashed in your face?” Jaskier asks when Geralt sets the basin down beside the tub, restraining a smile. 

“What’s on your mind bard?” Geralt asks instead, avoiding answering Jaskier’s question. 

Jaskier rolls his eyes at the obvious deflection, though truthfully it's more of a deflection in response to a deflection… does that make it an inflection? Or is that a different thing. Nevertheless, Jaskier sighs contently, “You.”

Jaskier reaches up to pull Geralt’s fingers from his hair, instead lacing them with his own and bringing both Geralt’s hands to his lap.

Geralt presses a kiss to the top of Jaskier’s head, a touch so intimate and warm that Jaskier wants to hold on to it forever. Geralt’s fingers squeeze Jaskier’s. “What about me?”

“Someone’s wordy today, did ‘hmm’ and ‘fuck’ lose their appeal already?” Jaskier grins. 

Geralt huffs out his own half-hearted amusement but he also squeezes Jaskier’s hands indicating that the Witcher genuinely wants to know what’s on his mind. Jaskier sinks down until he can rest his head against Geralt’s shoulder, letting the other man’s chin drop to his hair. 

“I just,” Jaskier starts, suddenly grateful that Geralt won’t be able to see his face as he stumbles his way through this, “I’ve never had anything like this.”

Geralt stills beneath him, “What do you mean?”

Jaskier closes his eyes, swallowing, “I never had anyone take care of me the way you do. No one has ever stayed with me once they’ve gotten what they wanted,” He opens his eyes to looks at Geralt’s hands in own, so big and safe, “Sometimes it’s money, sometimes it’s sex, sometimes both, but once it's over- poof- they’re gone. I mean this isn’t a pity party or anything, I’m just trying to say-”

“Don’t you dare thank me,” Geralt tells him, his voice even as his thumb rubs over Jaskier’s fingertips. “Not for this.”

“Why not?” Jaskier asks, hating how small his voice sounds. This is exactly why he didn’t want to talk about this, he didn’t want to bring up all the shit lovers he’s had and the ways some of them made him feel shit about himself.

“This isn’t a fucking gift,” Geralt tells him, “This isn’t something you are taking from me or that I’m giving to you.” Geralt noses at his ear, “Whatever we have between us, it’s shared. It’s both of ours.”

“Ours,” Jaskier repeats around the lump in his throat, “I like the sound of that. Wait, can Roach be ours? Because I think I might like that even more.”

“No, get your own horse,” Geralt tells him, “Can I finish washing you now? Because you smell fucking disgusting.”

“Says the Witcher who just had his tongue in my arse,” Jaskier retorts making Geralt smirk against his neck, “But go right ahead dear Witcher, dote on me endlessly, bathe me in oils and your devotion.”

“Gods, you’re the fucking worst,” Geralt rumbles, but Jaskier can feel the Witcher’s smirk grow into a smile.

Geralt reaches over to grab the washrag. He dunks it in the water before rubbing it and the bath’s oils into Jaskier’s chest, the fibers catching a bit on his chest hair.

It’s only when Jaskier starts humming that Geralt speaks again, “New song?”

Jaskier nods against Geralt’s shoulder, “I have a feeling it's going to be an instant classic.”

“Fuck, I already regret this,” Geralt grumbles as he rubs the rag into Jaskier’s thigh muscle, “ _Go ahead_.”

Jaskier bites down a smile before clearing his throat, " _Oh, how-_ I should have you know it's still a bit rusty.”

“Alright.”

“And I haven’t got more than a verse or two.”

“Fine.”

“And I haven’t landed on a definite rhyme scheme ye-”

“ _Just fucking sing it_ ,” Geralt growls.

And so Jaskier does, crooning out a joyous melody:

_Oh, how divine, this sweet love of mine,_

_A cock so glorious it’s owed a shrine,_

_A fine peak scaled by yours truly_

_Haled as perilous and thought unruly_

He doesn’t even see it coming when Geralt pushes his head underwater, making him splutter as soon as he resurfaces. When he manages his first full breath he laughs. 

“You’re such a fucking prick,” Geralt tells him and Jaskier smiles, humming contently. 

It takes quite a bit of persuasion, but when the song is finally finished weeks later, Geralt lets him sing it once more. The Witcher still hates it, and Jaskier can see it on his face, but the fact that Geralt even let him sing it again is enough. Geralt leaves camp to go hunt grumpily though as soon as Jaskier says, “It’s _our_ song, Geralt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys again for reading! And no, I have no fucking clue about the dimensions of that bathtub, I confused myself while writing it (I hope it came out clear in the end). Anyway, you guys are amazing and hopefully, I'll get the chance to write more about these loveable idiots! <3


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